


A Heart in Port

by JWAB



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, OT3, Strangers to Lovers, inseparablesfest, jazz as foreplay, ships passing in the night (for a week)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JWAB/pseuds/JWAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stay. We’ll be good.” It’s almost an apology, and unnecessary really, but something in Aramis’ tone is too magnetic for Athos to dismiss.<br/>Porthos rears back. “We will?”<br/>Aramis cants his head, turning first to look at Porthos, then at Athos. “We could… all… be good. Together?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Inseparablesfest, a fluffy AU (though not without angst).

 

The rain is fast becoming sleet when the cab pulls up to the unassuming brick hotel. No front light on; it appears to be closed for the night. Aramis digs in his pocket, pushing his harmonica aside to grab his phone. If Marguerite had emailed ahead like she said she would –

But then he spots a light on in an upstairs window and a flickering garden stake light on the path to the front door, so he shoves his phone back in, pulls his fedora down tighter on his head, and fishes his wallet out of his jacket. “What’s the word on this place?” he asks, handing over two twenties.

“No idea. Good luck, buddy.”

The January sleet is needle sharp. Aramis reminds himself, not for the first time, to book gigs in Australia and Argentina during the winter. He could head south for three months like a migratory bird, soak up the sun, come back in the spring tan and happy. Because if the weather stays like this, he and the guys will be playing to empty tables all week.

He runs up the walk and heaves the front door open against the wind. Inside is welcomingly warm and quiet, the large foyer lit with small red glass-shade lamps that give the room a pink cast. The ceilings are high, walls covered in a brocade wallpaper that could be fabric. Looks like it’s trying for Paris in the 20s. Better than the cluttered Victorian inns Marguerite sent him to all autumn. If he never smells another bowl of rose potpourri it will be too soon.

Three manila folders are laid out across an empty reception desk. A tall man in a worn leather jacket stands in front of the one on the right. The red canvas duffel beside him is faded and dripping.

Scrawled across the middle folder is “Rene d’Herblay” in thick, black letters.

“Yours?” asks the man, turning to Aramis. He has an earthy, physical air, with broad shoulders and thick arms. He stands with his legs slightly apart, low in his hips, like a man who knows how to lift something heavy. Strong, obviously, and subdued. When he meets Aramis’ eyes, his own are rimmed with red.

“My manager. Likes to fuck with me. I go by Aramis.” He nods to the folder under the man’s hand. “That you?”

The man takes a deep breath, then stops. “Yeah,” he finally answers.

When Aramis reaches for his folder, the man disappears up the stairs.

* * *

 

Porthos is still staring out the window when a black sedan stops in front of the hotel. Has to be the guest belonging to the third folder. The driver opens the rear passenger door for a man in a dark trench and scarf. Confident bearing. Someone in the lead. When the driver gives the man an open umbrella, Porthos catches sight of the man’s hands – pale and sure. There’s a quick exchange, instructions by the look of it, then the man rolls his bag inside.

Since he got the news two days ago, Porthos suspects his body has forgotten how to sleep. And this week, he’ll need it more than ever. He hoped for a good eight hours tonight but ten o’clock became eleven and now it’s past midnight. And the thing is, he’s not making any headway with it all – not the memories, the fear, and certainly not the guilt. Because it’s simply true: he should have been here for her. She was there for him, raised him, when he had no one else. It was just the two of them, for decades. What did he think, that she would live forever? She was past sixty when he was born, never mind that she carried herself like a much younger, much stronger woman. Never mind that she was still beautiful well into her seventies, that she seemed infinite. She aged quickly in the last few years when she lost her footing, and he knew it, he saw it at Christmas. He heard it over the phone line. Mama needed him, despite her assurances, all that about wanting him to live his life and she was fine. Mama needed him, and died, and he wasn’t here.

The woman from Shady Maples – Carol, the grief liaison, what a title -- is expecting him tomorrow at nine thirty, and he still has to figure out how to get Mama Du Vallon’s things out of there and over here. And then what to do with them.

Not to mention choose a funeral home, pick out the coffin, find out how to hire a hearse. Write a eulogy.

When they called to tell him about Mama, the ladies at Zion Methodist offered to help. They loved her so, they said. He just has to remind himself to let them. He can’t do everything. He’s just one person.

* * *

 

When Athos comes down the next morning to the breakfast room, he finds a buffet along the far wall offering simple, portable food – fruit, hard-boiled eggs. A tall press-top canister of coffee, a smaller one presumably for tea.

Athos pours himself some coffee and takes a banana to a table in the middle of the room. There are no sounds from the kitchen, nor from anywhere else for that matter. He’s glad of the unexpected quiet and opens the notes d’Artagnan sent for the meeting today. Meetings. Three, back to back. Lawyers first -- a bunch of sharks, yes, but _his_ sharks. The CEO next, Ed Marsh, a snake of a man that Athos honestly looks forward to grinding into the dirt. And finally the board at 5, to announce that the hostile takeover of Marsh  & Egan is a done deal.

He should eat. D’Artagnan would bring him an egg on an English muffin and brewed tea with milk if he were at the office. An egg would be a good idea, better than this overripe banana. Protein to keep him even and patient.

He gets up just as another guest is coming in. They stop to give each other room.

“Morning,” Athos finds himself saying to the man. Something about him seems to invite it.

The man sniffs, nods hello. There are bags under his eyes and his shoulders droop, but still he’s big, taller than Athos by several inches and broad across the shoulders. He fills a mug with coffee and drinks it right there at the buffet table, looking over the offerings, up and down and back.

Athos sits back down with his egg, but he finds his eyes returning more than once to the man at the table.

Eventually the man refills his cup, takes a bagel, an apple and a seat, and stares out the large picture window. Athos wonders about the man’s story, what has worn him down, if he’s ill, if he’s suddenly separated from a spouse, if he’s recovering from some sort of wild binge. He is very distracting.

At quarter to nine, the car service texts Athos that his car is waiting outside. By the end of the day, the takeover will be complete and he can get on with the much more satisfying work that comes after. He nods to the man with the bagel as he leaves and the man nods back again, spreading his lips into a line that seems meant to be a smile.

* * *

 

Aramis splashes cold water on his face and checks his phone. There’s a text from Chuck, the gregarious, barrel-chested trumpet player of the Trinity. _Rehearsal at four then Jon says tacos. New space at 43 rd and Mason, sw corner._

 _Steinway?_ Aramis texts back. _Tell me that POS kawai is long gone._

_New Bosendorfer, asshole. See you at 4pm._

Aramis laughs out loud.

_Which means get a cab at 3:30. We have shit to do. Missed you._

He pulls yesterday’s trousers on and yesterday’s button down while he’s at it, leaving the shirt hanging open to his t-shirt underneath. He brushes his teeth, runs his fingers through his hair and heads downstairs. The sign says breakfast till nine, but it’s worth a shot; maybe they took mercy on him and left out a pot of coffee.

Breakfast hasn’t been cleared away, turns out, and it looks promising. No mass-production Danish or canisters of fruit loops. Not a whiff of Styrofoam. That’s one point for this place, plus two for the down pillows. He takes an apple and pours himself a cup of coffee.

The man from the reception desk last night is staring out the window. He’s an attractive guy, striking in an unassuming way, if that’s possible. Nice goatee, great hair, but a second glance reveals that he looks like hell – although maybe this is how he always looks. And to be fair, Aramis could use a shower. And a haircut. And a shave, laundry, a weekend off…

Aramis fights the urge to sit down next to him. That right there is not the attitude of a man who wants company. Instead, wouldn’t it be better to head back upstairs, sleep another few hours? Then later he could track down that noodle place Chuck and Rushi took him to last time.

The man may be a mess, but he’s got an excellent face. Kind. Aramis hates the idea that he’s been hurt, but that’s how he looks. Like life has punched him in the gut.

And just like that, he’s caught gawking. “Aramis, right?” the man asks.

“Right. And you’re…”

“Porthos.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

“You’re one to talk,” Porthos volleys back.

They have literally just met and who is Aramis to ask, but he can’t not. “You okay?”

An apologetic grin and then it’s gone. “Do I look that bad?”

“No, you look great,” Aramis answers. The words echo back at him, clunky and lame. _Verrrry smooth._

Porthos breaks eye contact, quirking a smile.

“I mean, you look fine, just. Less than happy. It’s none of my business, never mind.”

“Here for a funeral is all.”

Aramis shifts under the weight of it. Awful. No wonder. “Shit, I’m sorry man. That sucks.”

“It really does.” Aside from the call from Zion Methodist, these are the first condolences he’s gotten for Mama. Who was he going to tell? Alice, the lady whose house he was painting? He’ll tell Flea when he gets back. Anyway, now that he’s here, this sorry is just the first unwelcome consolation of many. “What about you? What brings you here?”

“I’m playing the Blue Moon all this week.” Aramis stands up straighter, smirks a little, wishfully projects the rest of the conversation: _that place is legendary, oh of course, I’ve heard of you, you’re amazing_ …

“What’s that?” Porthos asks instead and opens his mouth to bite into his apple. Good lips. Seriously fantastic, top level mouth.

“A jazz club. Been around since the fifties, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” Crunch. “What do you play?”

Aramis flutters his fingers. “Keys, mostly. Harmonica, I’ve been known to sing.”

“Just you? The whole week?”

“Well. A local combo is sitting in, good guys, we used to play together a lot more. Bass, drums, trumpet. Called the Trinity?”

Porthos shrugs. Of course, why would Porthos have heard of them, or him? It’s too bad, though; he wouldn’t mind the benefit of his middling fame with this guy.

Aramis can almost see the moment Porthos disengages from the conversation. Must be someone close to him that died, who would blame him? “Well. You, um, – hang in there,” Aramis offers, and leaves Porthos the room.

* * *

 

Something wakes Athos late that night. A dog barking in the night? Train? It’s gone by the time he’s awake. He wants to go back to sleep but Marsh’s face, that grin when Athos told him the deal was all but done, has him worried. He could, probably should walk away from the deal – his gut isn’t often wrong, and the company’s holdings only amount to a couple dozen apartment buildings, even if it is over half of the Charleston apartment rental market, all of the low income areas. They bought low when times got hard and sucked every last nickel out until tenants who already had next to no options were living in filth.

There aren’t many real evils in the world, but preying on the poor surely has to be among them. And this would be a small but important victory for the people who live there at least.

His mind is whirring; there’s no chance he’s going back to sleep anytime soon. If he gets out his computer, he’ll work. He can’t stomach the television, not at… ugh, 2:45 in the morning. No, what he needs is a book. He pulls on jeans, leaves his t-shirt as is, and pads down to the library.

He’s past the threshold before he realizes someone is there. He turns on his heel to leave.

“No, come in. Don’t let me stop you.”

The man flashes a wide, winning grin. He’s got one of those short-brimmed fedoras and needs a razor, but he’s drinking something amber and seems quietly friendly.

“I can get you a glass.”

“What are we drinking?” Athos asks against his better judgment.

The man lifts the bottle. “Maker’s, neat because the ice in the kitchen doesn’t appear to be from this decade.”

Athos nods, and the man walks off down the hall. Saunters, almost.

He comes back with a tumbler to match his own, uncorks the half empty bottle and they both watch the bourbon glurg out. It’s a generous pour. Athos is going to regret this drink come morning. Later this morning, that is.

“So, you’re the third guest,” the man says, offering the glass. “Pretty sure it’s just us and the other guy.”

“The sad guy?”

“Funeral.”

“Damn.”

“And you?”

“Business,” Athos answers, and takes a sip. Not his brand of bourbon, but it will do fine. “You?”

“Business too.”

“Really? You don’t look it.”

The man all but bows there in his seat. “Jazz musician.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

“Explains what?” the man asks and Athos’ mind supplies unhelpful answers: the swagger when you walked down the hall, the rhythm in your gait. The way your long fingers wrap around your glass, the way your fingertips feather over its surface. The undertone of sheen to your shirt, open one more button than is strictly necessary, and the effortless way you wear it.

“The hat,” Athos answers instead.

The man smiles wide, nodding. Then he offers his hand. “Aramis.”

“Athos,” he returns, shaking it once. Aramis’ hand is long and cool. Athos can feel it even after Aramis takes it back.

“Any relation to Porthos?” Aramis asks.

“Who?”

“That’s his name.”

Athos takes a swig. Then another. “Funeral guy?”

“I like to call him hot guy who needs cheering up,” Aramis corrects, and simmers a mischievous smile into his drink before throwing back a gulp.

Athos stifles a grin. “Should we wake him up and offer him a drink?”

“Maybe,” Aramis says, playing along. He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe later.”

Athos cants his head. It’s been ages since anyone has flirted with him, no less flirted with him and someone else at what appears to be the same time. No, that can’t be what he meant, but suddenly he’s self-conscious in his thin cotton shirt, his jeans that he’ll never wear enough to loosen and make his own. And anyway, he came down for a book, so he moves to the bookshelf to read the spines up closer.

“Unless you like Harlequin romances or Belva Plain, you’re outta luck.”

It’s tragically true. A quick scan and he gives up hope.

“So, business. Like, sales? Accounting?”

Athos could just say yes. Should just say yes, make something up. Nobody trusts the guy who buys other people’s companies, doesn’t matter the reason. But Athos doesn’t want to pretend with Aramis. God knows why. “Acquisitions.”

Aramis sits with it for a minute, takes another swig. “Yeah, I don’t know how you do it.”

“What?”

“Take about business all day. One question and I want to stab myself in the eye.”

Athos chuckles. It’s a better reaction than he expected. He sits in the armchair beside Aramis’, starts to feel some welcome exhaustion. “I shouldn’t be awake,” he says and sips again, less delicately now.

“It’s not so bad, is it? You’ve got some not awful bourbon and some not awful company, if I do say so myself.”

“Not awful. True.” Aramis’ breezy confidence is magnetic. Athos couldn’t go off to bed now if he wanted to. “But I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?” Aramis returns with evident anticipation.

“Stay awake this late.”

It seems to make an impact on Aramis, who traces the rim of his glass with his middle finger. “Yeah, well. It takes me a while to come down after a gig. It’s the adrenaline, I guess. This,” he says, uncorking the bottle to pour another glurg into his glass, “is a bad habit, but it helps.”

“Is it always like this?” It’s a disarming question, one Athos regrets immediately.

“What, late? Or alone?”

Athos nods in answer.

“Yeah,” Aramis says, a little heavily, and they both take a drink. Then Aramis sits up straighter in his chair, turning to Athos. “Uncomfortable questions, okay. My turn.”

“Excuse me?” Athos protests weakly.

“ _Oh_ yeah, we’re doing this.”

Athos shrugs, all but powerless to resist. “Ask away.”

“Are your acquisitions friendly or hostile?”

“And you say you don’t like business talk.”

Aramis holds his glass to toast Athos.

“They are… hostile.” They’re both silent for a moment. “But.”

“But you make tons of money so it’s worth it?”

Athos sets his glass on the worn arm of the chair. “But some people shouldn’t own businesses.”

“Ah,” Aramis plays along, “so you’re helping them. Magnanimously saving them from the burden of income.”

It cuts, though it shouldn’t. This man knows nothing about him, his work, his world. “Something like that.”

“You don’t seem like that kind of guy.”

“The vulture kind?”

“Yeah. You seem.”

“What?” He doesn’t actually want to know.

“Noble? Elegant anyway. Not a jerk.”

“Here’s the thing,” Athos tells him, leaning forward. For some reason, he cares that Aramis not think ill of him. “Everyone wants to make money in business. Some people don’t care who they hurt in the process. My firm targets the worst offenders, companies that hurt people, to make it plain. We stop them.”

“By buying their companies from them?”

“Yes, in part.”

Aramis leans forward, too. “But is there justice?”

And maybe this is why Athos was willing to answer the question to begin with. Because he suspected Aramis would care. “There is.”

“But you give the assholes money in exchange for their companies. So presumably they start other businesses and do the same shitty stuff again. Ultimately, aren’t you just cleaning up their messes?”

“We try not to let that happen.”

Aramis slumps back in his chair, elbows balancing on the fabric arms. “Still want to poke myself in the eye.”

“You asked.”

“So you’re really not a vulture?”

“I do my best not to be.”

“Good,” Aramis says, standing up. He takes the bottle between two long fingers. “It would be such a waste.”

Athos can’t begin to know how to respond to that.

“G’night,” Aramis says, and saunters off.

* * *

 

Athos had the presence of mind to turn off his alarm and to text d’Artagnan before he went to bed – _shift my meetings back two hours_ \-- so it’s after nine when he wakes up the next morning. During a fast shower he tries to replay his late night conversation with the guest Aramis.

Aramis will still be sleeping, no way he’ll be down in time for breakfast. Maybe he’ll encounter Aramis later, or tomorrow, or never. But how satisfying to speak to someone who wasn’t a colleague or an enemy. And it felt good to be flirted with, if that’s what it was.

The breakfast room is still open at nine thirty when he comes downstairs, the spread still laid out. The other guest, Porthos, sits at a table scrawling notes on a legal pad. Aramis, to Athos’ surprise, is pondering the fruit.

Athos lifts a cup off the nearest table and fills it with coffee, standing beside Aramis to do it. “Didn’t expect to see you so early,” Athos says.

“Interview at eleven on the college radio jazz show. Daily Jazz? Morning Jazz? Sounds faintly dirty, don't you think?”

Athos laughs in spite of himself.

“You have time to sit a minute? I would have thought you’d be acquiring already.”

“Nothing till later.”

Aramis leans closer, whispering. “Do we leave him be? Or be nice?”

Athos rolls his eyes. “By all means, be nice.”

“Follow me,” Aramis says, gesturing in Porthos’ direction with his head.

Porthos looks up just as Aramis sits beside him. Athos is unsure – the man doesn’t appear interested in company. But Athos sits down anyway, pulled along in Aramis’ wake.

Porthos knuckles are broad and calloused. Works with his hands. A warm face on any other day, Athos thinks, but withdrawn under the circumstances.

“This is Athos, our hotel-mate.”

“Hotel-mate, right,” Porthos repeats, laying his pen on the pad. The page is three quarters full of what appears to be a grim to-do list. “I’m Porthos.”

Athos darts a wary look at Aramis. “Are we interrupting?”

Porthos lays a hand on his list. “Nah, it’s just. A lot to do.”

This is where a person who didn’t know the answer already would ask what he was doing in town. But Athos knows second-hand and hates to bring it up. “Anything we can help with?” he asks instead.

“Got an extra ten thousand dollars lying around?”

Aramis raises an eyebrow. Athos glares back.

“That was.” Porthos shifts in his seat, picks up his pen again. “Sorry.”

“May I explain?” Aramis asks Porthos, and Porthos nods. “Porthos is here for a funeral.” Now everyone is officially in the know.

“My condolences.”

Porthos’ discomfort is so plain that Aramis continues. “So what do you think of this place?” he asks Porthos.

“It’s fine. It’s close to where my grandmother, um. Lived.”

Aramis leans back in his chair, craning his head to catch a glimpse of the kitchen. “I think it’s weird, this place.”

“Weird how?” Athos asks.

“There’s no staff. I haven’t seen a single person who works here.”

“Well, someone works here. This,” Athos says, waving toward the breakfast spread, “doesn’t magically appear.”

Porthos agrees. “And the front desk, somebody left us the keys and paperwork.”

Aramis leans in, the morning light playing in his dark eyes. “Do you think they live here and just hide? Or do they have such perfect timing that they never cross any of our paths?”

“Does it matter?” Athos asks.

“Why’d _you_ pick this place?” Porthos asks Aramis.

“I didn’t. My manager set everything up. I tell her what I’m looking for and she does her best to find me the opposite.”

“I like it,” Athos volunteers.

“Sure you do,” Aramis quips, “you have the penthouse suite.”

“It’s hardly a penthouse.”

Aramis gives him a serene smile. “Own it, man. You’re living the life.”

“My assistant made the arrangements.”

“Am I the only one who does his own work around here?” Porthos asks.

Aramis toasts him with his coffee. “Looks like it, but musicians don’t make enough money to count. In fact… Athos, you should take us to dinner tonight. We’ll talk about businessy things, you can write it off. Whaddaya say?”

Athos squints past him. “I say… that you are very sure of yourself.” A trait he has come, in a very short time, to enjoy immensely. “And I’ll pick you both up here at 6:30 tonight. How does French sound?”

“No snails,” Porthos tells them.

“Open your mind, Porthos,” Aramis adds, dropping a blueberry into his mouth. “Anything is worth eating drenched in butter and garlic.”

* * *

 

The candlelit restaurant has six tables at most and four times as many wait staff. When asked, Porthos says he likes chicken; Athos orders a feast to share without a trace of snail. Aramis conspicuously enjoys every mouthful – the face he makes when he tastes the duck, like it hurts him in the best way, turns Porthos right over. Athos can’t remember the last time he was this relaxed and content. He orders a second bottle of wine to go with the cheese, but Aramis demurs. “More later,” he assures them, “after the gig.”

Athos breathes lighter to see Porthos’s bearing loosen. Porthos sits taller here, opens up, shaping his comments with graceful hands. Aramis leans back and watches them both. When Athos meets Aramis’ smirky eyes, Athos’ face flushes, caught.

“Got to go,” Aramis announces after dinner. “I’m on at nine.”

Porthos shoots Athos a conspiring look. “What do you think? Shall we?”

Athos is helpless to resist this new, enthusiastic Porthos. “Let’s go.”

Aramis’ eyebrows make a low line. “To my gig? Honestly, you don’t have to. Do you even like jazz?”

Athos could take it or leave it. It’s nice for warming up cocktail parties, not that he’s ever spent any dedicated time listening to it. But he guesses he’d say he likes it, so he shrugs a “sure.” Porthos, three glasses of wine in him, says, “I like you, and you like jazz, so I like jazz. That’s how it works.”

Now it’s Athos who catches a frankly smitten Aramis sparkling at Porthos.

Aramis takes a cab there, Chuck’s voice in his ear: “there’s jazz late and then there’s rock late, Springsteen.” But Porthos and Athos, not in a hurry, stroll the mile and a half after dinner. Athos asks what Porthos does – he’s an artist, big sculptural installations, wood, steel, whatever is right for the project. He works as a carpenter or handyman in between commissions, but galleries are commissioning again after the recession, so it’s hard to be away. His hands itch to create. Athos has no idea what that feels like.

The Blue Moon is a not-enormous jazz club, tables strewn in no discernible pattern across the floor, a stage raised only a foot or so, lit in white and pink against a black velvet curtain. There’s a black matte grand piano, drums, cords and chairs and mics, a water glass next to the bass drum. The bass player and the trumpeter are tuning, the trumpeter at the piano, pressing a note for the bass then blowing quietly into his horn, pointing it down at the floor. A bit more tuning and listening and then they both veer from shared notes and start to warm up.

Aramis comes out on stage from a side door rubbing his hands together. He doesn’t look to see how many are out in the audience or where Athos and Porthos are, hates the way that looks, the hand shading the brow from blaring stage lights, the confused glare and then, _ah there you are_ , the awkward wave. He will see them after the show or maybe they found something better on the way over and if that’s the case, he doesn’t want to know right now.

The keys under his fingers ground Aramis. He sits, one last rub to erase the January chill, and then a quick blues lick, now in B-flat, he starts up at the top and lets loose a cascading scale. Hoots from the audience; he smiles, not at them, chuckles a little. Chuck stands in the crook of the piano. “Something sweet to start tonight,” he suggests. Jon slides behind his drum set, twirls a stick and raises his eyebrows in their direction. Rushi looks over too, holding the neck of his bass beside his head in an easy grip.

And Aramis begins. It’s an old standard, familiar to some. He lets the melody meander in a rhythm close to speech. Chuck blows a low countermelody over the second half of the verse; Jon wipes his brushes over the snare and Rushi leaves plenty of space between gong-like bass notes. Chuck licks his lips as the verse gets ready to close, holds the trumpet up and squints into the light. His tone is mellow and warm, the rich color of rust, brightening orange as his line ascends.

Porthos cannot take his eyes off of Aramis’ casual virtuosity at the piano. Neither can Athos. Beads of condensation collect and streak down their drinks, left untouched while Aramis plays. They listen to song after song, relishing the opportunity to watch Aramis without being watched in return. It’s intoxicating, this sanctioned voyeurism, and so they are caught up short by the set break. Forty five minutes of music felt like five at most.

Aramis goes back to the green room for the break. Rushi picks up the story he was telling before they went on, something about his car and a rodent, Aramis hasn’t paid careful enough attention. Jon and Chuck duck out to get beers from the bar and, Aramis knows from experience, to test the temperature of the room, look for willing after-gig partners. Aramis has been known to do exactly the same, but not tonight. Tonight he makes listening faces for Rushi while he thinks considers the two men who might still be out there, how their lives have improbably converged. And what that convergence could look like after this.

The break isn’t quite over when Aramis heads back out, waving away the moves of the other guys to follow. He sits at the piano again – a beautiful Steinway, slow action and a subdued, mellow tone to match. Not his favorite, but he’ll take it. One line first, a treble tune that trips on a trill, busy. Then his left hand starts another line, long notes, low. Not an accompaniment to the top line, no, they don’t line up. Not yet. Another in the middle, angular, hard to pin down. Dotted with silences, traded between his hands. The treble joins the rhythm of the bass line first; the middle line joins next. They cross, they move in parallel like a trio of dancers. And finally, sooner than he wants it to end, they converge and it has to be over.

There’s some applause. Free improvisation isn’t ever a favorite, even among die-hard jazz aficionados, he reminds himself. And that piece wasn’t for the audience, anyway. It was for him.

* * *

 

After the show, after midnight, the three of them walk home together. Porthos asks questions about the music, jazz history, Aramis’ music study, and Aramis is delighted to talk about his two favorite subjects, music and himself. The center of attention, after all, is where he feels most at home.

When they get back to the hotl, Athos is surprised not to be tired of their company. But really, he feels like he’s only getting started with them. Porthos heads right for the kitchen, Aramis behind him, to ransack the kitchen. Aramis finds cheese and fruit, Porthos sets out crackers and slices a baguette. Athos, watching from the doorway, memorizing the scene, sees a bottle of wine on a shelf nearby that’s not bad enough to pass up. They take it all into the library.

“Not on the piano!” Aramis tuts when Athos moves to use it as a serving board.

While Athos pours the wine and Porthos arranges the bread, cheese, and fruit – stealing first one, then a handful of grapes in the process – Aramis spins through his music collection on his phone.

“Is this your friend?” Porthos asks when the music starts.

“Who, Chuck? This, Porthos, is Chet Baker.”

Porthos pops another grape. “So, not Chuck.”

Athos hands them both full glasses of wine. “A toast,” he offers, lifting his own.

“To what?” Aramis asks, totally game, raising his glass.

“To you.” Aramis’ lips fall just open. Athos blinks slowly, more delighted than is rational to have surprised Aramis with this, and continues. “You were magnificent. I’m not an expert, I grant you, but I loved every second of your playing. Your solo improvisation was stunning, something I expect I’ll think back on for years to come.”

Aramis furrows his brow and nods his gratitude.

“Also,” Athos continues, “to your affability and your persistence, which have brought the three of us together, if only for today.”

Porthos’ grin grows as Athos speaks, until he has to add his own coda. “It’s true. Without you being so easy to be around, I’d probably be upstairs going through boxes. Actually, I should probably be --”

“No,” Athos and Aramis both say, reaching their free hands out to catch Porthos’ arms.

“Stay,” Aramis says. “All that can wait. You deserve a good night away from it.”

“Whether I deserve it or not,” Porthos says, “I need it.” The music changes. A voice starts to croon sleepily from Aramis’ phone. “I know this song. Do I know this song?”

Aramis closes his eyes to listen. “She Was Too Good to Me. Love his version.”

“Is this one you do?” Athos asks him.

“I used to. It’s not so much in the rotation lately. I should bring it back.”

Porthos nods toward the piano. “I’d love to hear you play it.”

“You mean now? Naw, it’s Chet’s turn.”

Athos leans against the piano, crossing his feet at the ankle, doing a passable James Bond impression. “How about a duet?”

Aramis scoffs but they don’t cave. They mean it, the both of them. “You’re serious.”

Porthos levels a suddenly bare look at Aramis. “We just can’t get enough of you.”

That stops Aramis short. “In that case,” he says after a deep breath, opening the keyboard cover. “This thing might be way out of tune.” He plays a few notes, then a few more. It’s in pretty good condition, another mystery in this crazy hotel. “Okay then.”

Aramis slides onto the piano bench, pokes a few notes, a chord, then another. The tone is bright, the action light and responsive, springing back just the way he likes under his fingers. Soon he’s got a counterpoint running above Chet’s voice.

Porthos perches on the edge of the bench beside Aramis, in front of the bass notes. Athos turns to watch from the crook of the piano, leaning to see Aramis’ fingers stretch and separate, lingering, pressing and petting the keys. He leans to the right, scoots higher until he’s facing the keyboard straight on, then digs in. The next song starts, Autumn Leaves, and his fingers go wild, skipping, skating over the keyboard. Aramis hums the melody, privileging notes Chet’s trumpet ignores. His voice is smooth, like dark honey. When he dips low, it picks up a layer of grit.

Athos can’t see Aramis’ eyes under that hat except when Aramis leans back, and then there they are, stunners he has to admit, closed or only barely open, neck long and strained. Athos is reveling in watching Aramis, just openly gawking at this delicious man whose body is made of music and, if he’s honest, sex. It has been so long, he thinks to himself. That explains Athos’ interest. And Aramis is such a flirt. And after all, watching is harmless. It’s even expected. If this is all there can be, and it is, then Athos damn well will drink his fill of the man’s face and lips and crinkly, expressive eyes.

Porthos forgets his glass on the floor, forgets most everything else and just listens to Aramis, watches his hands do their magic. And feels the way Aramis moves, pressed like this against his side. Aramis’ left arm settles down now as his left hand wanders over the same few notes and the song calms. Porthos gladly absorbs it when Aramis sways closer, misses him when he drifts away. And Aramis’ fingers are so sure, so precise. Porthos doesn’t hear a single mistake, not that he would know one if he heard it, he chides himself. Everything he plays sounds so good. So right. He could listen to this all night. He could sit beside Aramis and be serenaded until the sun comes up.

“Want to join?” Aramis asks Porthos without missing a beat.

“I wouldn’t know what to do,” Porthos protests.

“Here,” Aramis says, lifting Porthos right hand off his thigh. He holds it in his two hands, curling Porthos’ fingers, supporting his palm. “Keep this frame up,” Aramis says, pressing up from under his knuckles, “and use gravity as much as you can. These two notes,” he explains, pressing Porthos’ fingers into two white keys, “are the only ones you need right now. One hand, all within reach. Play one a while, then the other.”

“How do I know when?”

“Just listen and play, you’ll see.”

Porthos tries one. It doesn’t sound wrong. He tries the other. It sounds more right, until the harmonies change and it sounds wrong. He goes back. “Ah, okay,” he says. “Really, just these two?”

“Look at you, so greedy,” Aramis simmers, picking the song up again as he pushes a little against Porthos’ shoulder.

Athos’ lips slide into a grin. Aramis really is a deadly flirt.

Porthos keeps playing, earnest and working hard, and Aramis takes pity on him. “You can have all the notes you want,” Aramis tells Porthos. “Just try them.”

Porthos does. Some are better than others, and the harmonies are changing and he doesn’t know how to predict what will work. He takes a stab at a black key; it’s so wrong, and then suddenly right.

“This feels incredible,” Porthos whispers.

Aramis smiles. “You never played when you were a kid?”

Porthos shakes his head once, the most he can do, and keeps playing. It’s hard enough to play at all; he can’t even consider holding a conversation at the same time. He wonders how Aramis does it.

“Try higher,” Aramis suggests, leaning back to make room.

Porthos does. He tries note after note, back-tracking a bit then leaping higher. He wishes he knew how to play more than one at a time, how to put together chords, and now he’s reaching all the way past Aramis, who smells really good.

Aramis chases Porthos’ line, picking up chords, making Porthos’ choices sound better. He trills, heads back down the keyboard with both hands, leaping his right over Porthos’ right arm. It’s piano twister, Porthos’ arm caught between Aramis’ two arms. The song is slowing, slowing, a final harmony settling in, a harp-like arpeggio floating up on the recording but Aramis doesn’t follow it up. Instead, he drifts his hands off the keyboard entirely, his left on Porthos’ thigh and his right on Porthos’ left forearm, then his bicep, up over his shoulder and he’s turning, to Porthos’ simultaneous surprise and relief, his hand settling on the side of Porthos’ neck, pressing his lips lightly to Porthos’ mouth.

“Yeah?” Porthos asks when Aramis pulls away.

“Yeah,” Aramis answers, and tugs him back for another kiss.

Athos watches even this, though he shouldn’t. But who takes up on a piano bench in front of other people? In front of one other person, which is worse. He should go, should leave them to it, but Athos can’t bring himself to look away. The way Aramis pushes, the way Porthos fists Aramis’ open collar, the way their breath becomes slow and synchronized. Aramis’ eyes closed are almost more beautiful than open, more beautiful certainly than Athos can stand, and Porthos – he sucks at Aramis’ kisses, wraps his wide palm around the nape of Aramis’ neck and pulls him closer, kisses him deeper. It’s painfully intimate.

But Athos, he chastises himself, is not part of this intimacy. He has held himself apart, again and always, and these two have found each other. It is best this way. He doesn’t want to be distracted. Really. He doesn’t.

He drains his glass and stands away from the piano. “Good night,” he tells them.

“No, Athos,” Aramis mutters, pulling away from a disappointed Porthos.

Athos waves away Aramis’ politeness. “It’s fine, please, have – um, have fun. I’ve got to get to bed.” He turns to go.

But Aramis is insistent. “Stay. We’ll be good.” It’s almost an apology, and unnecessary really, but something in Aramis’ tone is too magnetic for Athos to dismiss.

Porthos rears back. “We will?”

Aramis cants his head, turning first to look at Porthos, then at Athos. “We could… all… be good. Together?”

Porthos grins, slowly at first and then all at once, like a sunrise. “We really could.”

Does Athos understand them correctly?

Aramis stands, pulling Porthos to his feet. He leads him by the hand to where Athos stands. “Come on,” Aramis insists to Athos, gesturing with his head up the stairs.

“Are you suggesting…?” Athos doesn’t have words to complete his question.

He looks at Porthos. There is a bedroom grin on his lips, mischief in his eyes. He’s breathtaking, and what’s more, he’s _not sad_.

“Join us?” Porthos asks.

“I.” Athos is becoming alarmingly inarticulate. It would be much easier to speak if he wanted to say no. But the part of him is bent on yes is wresting away control of his verbal center. “Are you sure?”

Porthos lets out a low hum in answer. The sound is too much for Athos, whose eyes just about roll back into his head, while Aramis appreciates it with a little groan of his own. Then Aramis threads a finger, to Athos’ amazement, through the belt loop just to the left of Athos’ fly and tugs at it. Athos follows.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Aramis whispers “ready?” in his ear Athos finds himself nodding, eyes falling shut now at the first touch of a hand to his cock.
> 
> “I’ve got you,” Porthos whispers in his other ear.

On the second floor landing, Porthos glances between doors – his at the end of the hall and the others, one of which has to belong to Aramis. “My room,” Athos says, taking Aramis’ hand from his belt loop and holding it. “Larger.”

“All that matters is the size of the bed,” Aramis says, yielding to Athos’ tug.

The third floor hall is just big enough for the three of them and a fake fern. Athos unlocks the door but it’s Porthos that all but drags Aramis and Athos inside. Forget what really is a penthouse, Athos can protest all he wants: Porthos only needs a few square feet to press Aramis against the back of the door, bracing him there with his chest, with his hips, his mouth open and hungry over Aramis’ lips, and still he’s got hold of Athos’ wrist beside him. Porthos holds Aramis’ jaw in the other hand, sucks his bottom lip, recaptures his mouth, swipes his tongue across Aramis’ top lip and the best Aramis can do is to hold on.

Leaning to face them, Athos watches silently. A different kind of watching now, this is active, participatory. Porthos breathes and pushes, sucks and pulls, all muscle and motion. Aramis is liquid against him, sliding his hips, adjusting to give Porthos access to whatever he wants. When Porthos starts unbuttoning Aramis’ shirt, Athos makes a sound he doesn’t mean to.

“Athos,” Porthos says, heavy-lidded. He reaches for him, just pulls the man to meet his mouth and sucks at his lips, leading the kiss so that Athos, stiff at first, begins to loosen, to curve, and finally to press himself against Porthos’ wall of a chest. Aramis beside them kisses the inside of Athos’ wrist with delicate pecks and gentle, flat licks, then moves to his palm. He traces Athos’ life line with his tongue, then the length of his middle finger and sucks it between his lips. Athos groans into Porthos’ mouth.

“Good?” Porthos asks.

Athos nods, glancing at Aramis.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Porthos tells him, kissing over his jaw and down his neck, making way for Aramis. So Athos turns a little, and Aramis, lips beautifully swollen, leans closer so Athos can lick open his mouth without pulling away from Porthos. They fall together, the three of them leaning into each other, Porthos digging bites into the hollow of Athos’ neck, Aramis giving Athos his lips to learn.

But Porthos is impatient, hungry for skin and pressure, for both of these two men. He starts on Athos’ top button, then the next and Athos twists out of Aramis’ kiss to stop him. “Wait.”

“Are you okay?” Aramis asks, bewildered by the sudden halt. But Athos’ neck is long and inviting, so Aramis bends to dig a probing nip at the hollow, there under his jaw.

Athos’ head falls back with a light, breathy groan. “I just. Not yet.”

“Not yet? Or not ever?” Aramis asks, stopping to look Athos in the eye. It’s a gentle look, only a twinge of disappointment.

“Just not yet. You two, though. You go ahead.”

Aramis takes Athos’ hand. “Do you want us to leave?”

“No.” Athos licks his lips as they fall open. “Stay.”

“Do you want to watch?” Aramis asks him, eyes dark and serious.

Athos’ breath catches in his throat. It feels like an age since he’s been in someone’s arms, since he has returned a gaze like this one. And Porthos’ arms now snaking around Athos’ waist, Aramis inches from his face, their breath the same breath only Athos’ wants to come faster, he would be panting if he were alone, if it weren’t such a nakedly needy thing to do. He wants them, God, _both_ of them, he has to admit it. He wants lithe, sexual Aramis, wants his fine, wise fingers and his ease, wants to be kissed and stroked and wants to look into those midnight eyes and be laid bare for them. And he wants Porthos, explosive, strong Porthos whose heart is the size of a mountain, Porthos whose depths seem endless and who reminds Athos of nothing so much as a bull. He wants them both, and even if he can never have them the way he wants to, even if he will always hold himself back, he can at least watch.

Athos nods. Aramis kisses his cheek.

“Come to the bed with us, then,” Porthos says, tugging on his other arm.

“Aren’t you being a bit presumptuous?” Aramis teases Porthos.

“Am I?”

There is the slightest of face-offs before Aramis lunges into Porthos, pushing him backwards against the bed until his knees buckle and he falls back onto the mattress. That’s enough answer for all of them. Between kisses, during kisses, Aramis unbuttons Porthos’ shirt, untucking it and starting from the bottom, and Porthos helps, starting at the top. It’s a playful but nevertheless real competition for who can undo the most buttons. Porthos wins – it’s his shirt and after all he is so deliciously eager – but when they are both done it’s Aramis that spreads the seams of the shirt wide in victory, exposing Porthos’ entire chest, and sinks down onto him, down into a probing kiss.

The bed barely shifts when Athos lowers himself onto the edge, carefully, at the head of the bed. But Porthos reaches a hand out for Athos, squeezes Athos’ fingers. He’s a part of this, the squeeze says, and at that Athos releases a tense breath.

Aramis is as much a virtuoso here as at the piano, takes pride in his skill, in his responsive improvisation, in the way he can read a partner. Yes, and he will take good care of this broken-hearted bear of a man whose lips are knee-weakeningly strong and good, whose kiss is equal parts give and take, equal parts press and suck. Beneath his mourning Porthos is wild and ready and Aramis cannot frankly wait to care for him, to soothe or incite, he is up for either. Aramis can just imagine the roll of Porthos’ hips under him, his wide hands tense and clawing over his back, up his thighs. And elegant Athos, Aramis wants nothing more than to dismantle that composed exterior and leave him moaning and raw. He wants to hear what Athos sounds like when he can’t keep hold of himself anymore. And that may come or it may not, but for now just Athos’ gaze on him, on _them_ , is gasoline on a fire.

Porthos sits up with his next kiss, heaving Aramis along with him, wrapping his free arm around Aramis’ waist, kissing up into him. Athos gives Porthos’ hand a stroke and then lets go, nudging it back to Aramis and it’s on Aramis’ ass in an instant, on the fine wool fabric of his trousers, straining over spread thighs, and then he tugs Aramis’ shirt, already unbuttoned at the neck to allow, he’s sure, a few tantalizing wisps of chest hair to peek out and curl over his collarbones, Porthos tugs it up out of the waist of his trousers and up, sliding his palms over Aramis’ smooth flanks at the same time, tugs the hem of his shirt up to his armpits. Aramis complies, arms high enough that Porthos can pull the shirt over the width of Aramis’ shoulders and over his head, pulling his fedora with it. Porthos throws both the shirt and the hat caught inside it across the room without a glance. All he can see, all he wants to see right now, is Aramis.

Aramis is so tuned in that he already seems to sense where Porthos wants Aramis’ hands to venture. And the man is beautiful, really beautiful, a face so exquisite that Porthos keeps opening his eyes a sliver while he kisses Aramis, to catch another glimpse. He holds Aramis against him, holds his ass in both hands and pulls him closer but Aramis is already rolling his hips and kissing open Porthos’ mouth, tracing the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue and then opening for Porthos, letting him in.

Porthos wants Athos too, such a strange and new experience to want them both, to have them both here, and maybe it’s best that Athos only wants to watch because even to imagine having both of them is maybe more than Porthos can handle right now. And yet his attention is split between this god on his lap and the prince by his side, whose desire Porthos can almost feel pumping out at him in waves, and whose feverish gaze is as palpable as hands everywhere on his skin.

Aramis pushes Porthos’ open shirt all the way off his shoulders and now Porthos’ fingers are working the belt at Aramis’ waist, tugging at the leather and brushing, he can’t help it, brushing against Aramis’ cock straining the fabric at his fly. Aramis should hold still, let Porthos do it, but just _there_ and Aramis’ eyelids flutter closed, this is going to be _good_ and when Athos’ breath comes harder it’s even better. Aramis leans back to give Porthos room to work and watches Porthos’ big hands, long fingers and Aramis grins at himself because he is literally salivating at the promises those hands are making. Belt open, fly down, Aramis’ cock presses out against black cotton. Porthos palms it and both Aramis’ and Athos’ mouths fall open.

“Up,” Porthos grunts and Aramis slides back and off, dropping his pants and toeing off his shoes at the same time, pulling off his socks before wrapping a hand around the back of Porthos’ neck and pulling him down an inch, maybe two, into a kiss while his other hand makes quick work of Porthos’ button fly. As Porthos’ arms come to rest on Aramis’ shoulders, lightly, Aramis pushes Porthos’ jeans to the floor, catching his shoes and holding them so he can slip them off, kneeling at Porthos feet, ministering to him this way, socks off and then he presses a wet kiss to his thigh, just where he is, then another, higher, and another until he meets the hem of gray cotton.

“These,” Aramis says, standing, “have to go.”

Porthos bites his bottom lip. “Athos?” he asks without looking.

“I would agree,” Athos answers, only a bit startled.

“I mean, do the honors?”

Athos hesitates – this could lead to more awkward stopping and halting explanations or worse – but with an encouraging nod from Aramis, he does finally oblige. Which is to say, he balances on his feet unsteadily but when he meets Porthos’ eyes, when they lock and Porthos blinks slowly and his eyes crinkle with the beginning of a smile, then he’s okay. He holds Porthos’ jaw and brushes his lips over Porthos’ open, swollen mouth before he gently eases the waistband up and over Porthos’ cock and even then he’s still watching his own pale hands hold the waistband away from this cock he would give almost anything to suck right this very second. But he will only allow his eyes the pleasure so he takes it all in, the slick slit, the shiny purple head, veins thick and winding down the length of it and a thicket of black hair at the base. He pulls the fabric lower, pushes it with possibly trembling fingers over Porthos’ round, unbelievable ass and Athos’ skin flushes because all the while Porthos is watching _him_ , watching him look. And further still to Porthos’ thighs, and now Athos wants to kneel before him but can’t trust himself to place his mouth only inches from Porthos’ cock.

“There you go,” Athos whispers instead, leaving them loose around Porthos’ thighs. “You can take it from here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” Aramis asks an obviously overcome Athos as he retakes his place on the edge of the bed.

Athos could. If he was careful, he could do it. But he hasn’t since – no. He shakes his head once, the white comforter suddenly fascinating.

“The invitation is open when you’re ready,” Porthos says, already pulling Aramis close, already sliding his fingers down Aramis’ back and into the waistband of his heart-clenchingly small black briefs, barely more than a sling for what promises to be a gorgeous cock, the waistband sitting so low on his hips that it takes almost nothing for Porthos to peel them off.

Another audible breath from Athos, a sigh really, and then Porthos and Aramis press together, as much skin against skin as they can find, lips locked and Aramis already thrusting, sliding his cock against Porthos’ and the two men gripping at each other as if they were on a ledge, desperate not to fall.

“Bed,” Aramis mutters into Porthos mouth.

“God yes,” Porthos agrees, walking them both back one step, two. Aramis stops kissing the man long enough to let him sit, then slide himself around until all six feet and change of him is lying the length of the bed, leaning back against the pillows beside Athos and then, with a sizzling grin, he folds his arms behind his head.

“Look at you,” Aramis says, sighs to be honest, but of course both Athos and Aramis are already positively ogling this man, brown skin warm against the stark white sheets, nothing if not _ready_ , lips bee-stung and cock heavy, curving to his belly, twitching once under their dual gaze.

Porthos reaches for Athos, rests his hand around the nape of Athos’ neck. Athos lets his eyes drift shut, takes a deep breath, and then all eyes are on Aramis.

Aramis climbs onto the foot of the bed, hands then knees and, with a kiss to the inside of Porthos’ ankle, crawls up his body, one knee between Porthos’ legs, spreading them wider apart with each step.

They are both so ready, so hungry for each other, and this stunning spectacle is unfolding right before his eyes. Athos swallows hard. “Are you going to. I mean, do you,” Athos stammers. “Condom?”

Aramis’ forehead falls to Porthos’ chest. “In my room. Got any here?”

“I don’t,” Athos tells him and silently pronounces himself an idiot for not keeping some on hand, just in case. On the off chance he doesn’t stop himself in time. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll go,” Aramis says, and with a playful glare to Porthos, “don’t move.”

“You’re leaving?”

“It’ll only take me a second,” Aramis reassures him.

“I’m clean,” Porthos counters, dangling it like a carrot.

“Aren’t we all? Look, I’m going downstairs because I want to fuck you and this is the only way it’s going to happen.” Aramis is up and off of him fast.

“Robe in the bathroom, back of the door,” Athos tells Aramis as he reaches for his discarded trousers.

“You got a robe?” Aramis asks, petulant child that he is, and flings open the bathroom door. “I didn’t get a robe. Did you get robe?” he asks Porthos.

“What if _I_ want to fuck _you_?” Porthos asks, ignoring everything having to do with robes.

Aramis winks, wrapped in white fluffy terrycloth, and slips out the door.

Once he’s gone, Porthos rolls toward Athos. Athos curls to meet him, arms folded in front of him, and just looks. Lets himself be looked at in return again. It’s intimate, maybe more intimate than any kiss Athos has ever been given, but he’s finding that he can handle it. “You are so,” Athos whispers, the words out before his mind can catch them.

“What?” Porthos simmers, scooting closer. “What am I?”

But the door swings open and there’s Aramis, clutching a handful of condoms in one hand and a tube in the other. He drops the robe on the floor and climbs onto the bed, leaving the supplies on the bedside table. “Now, you were saying?”

Still to Athos, Porthos says, “for the record, so are you.”

Athos licks his lips. “I am what?”

But Porthos can’t answer because Aramis has captured his mouth, straddling his hips, first sucking Porthos’ bottom lip, now his top lip and finally, _finally_ Aramis sinks his body down, smearing his cock against Porthos’ hip, slipping along Porthos’ cock and pinning him to the bed. Porthos pushes into it, thrusts into Aramis’ thrust. Between kisses, Porthos tries to talk. “I was. I was saying.”

Aramis smiles against his mouth. This is good, Porthos unable to get a word in. Feeling him squirm and strain, try to catch his breath.

“I want to fuck you,” Porthos rasps, breathless.

Aramis licks at Porthos’ earlobe. “What was that? Not sure I heard you right.”

“I want. To fuck. You.”

“Porthos,” Athos groans. It is impossible to be here and not touch them. He balls his hands into fists.

Aramis pushes himself up to face Porthos and his filthy, perfect mouth. “Yes, please.”

Porthos and Athos groan at that in unison, and Aramis nearly giggles.

Aramis, pure desire, and Athos, somehow more soul than person, both of them together have kindled a fire in Porthos that, for now it least, burns out his mourning and his loneliness and leaves him clear. He rolls Aramis onto his back, into Athos’ lap really, against Athos’ hard cock and Athos holds Aramis’ head there, pressing a kiss to Aramis’ forehead. “Condoms?” Athos prompts.

“And the lube,” Aramis adds.

Porthos kisses the tip of Aramis’ nose. “Interesting that you travel with it.”

“What are you trying to say?” Aramis challenges, as Porthos reaches past Athos for them, stretching above Aramis until Porthos’ nipple is _right there_ and Aramis can lick a swirl around it.

Porthos hisses and takes it out on Athos, seizing his mouth for a lingering kiss before pressing the condom into Aramis’ waiting palm. He nips at Aramis’ ear, down the long muscle of his neck and lower, cock dragging down Aramis’ thigh as he moves, as he nips and bites down his chest, down his belly and further.

“Hi,” Porthos breathes, hovering over Aramis’ cock.

Learning a new partner is not unusual for Aramis. Since he started to spend so much time on the road, nearly all of his partners are new. But Aramis can’t remember the last time he found someone he wants the way he wants Porthos. “Hi,” Aramis whiffles back as Porthos sucks Aramis’ cock into his mouth, then “Jesus,” a groan as he grinds his head back into Athos’ lap.

Aramis’ cock is thicker than Porthos expected just from looking at him. And Aramis is being careful, not quite thrusting, not fucking up into Porthos’ face the way he must want to, just the slightest little pushes. So Porthos, kneeling here between Aramis’ thighs, lays his hands on Aramis’ hips to help him, to anchor him, to reassure him that he’s going to get it, all of it, what he needs and more. He sucks and pulls tight lips up the wide shaft, tugging at the ridge of the head, licking around it, along the tender slit. Porthos swallows around Aramis’ cock and Aramis hums at the suction and pressure. Then deep again, Aramis’ cock heavy on Porthos’ tongue for another pull.

Aramis could let him go on like this but if all he’s got is one night, he wants to come with Porthos’ cock inside him. “Lube,” Aramis insists.

Porthos presses a hard kiss into Aramis’ belly, then he’s sitting up between Aramis’ open thighs, taking up _room_ and squeezing clear lube onto two fingers. Aramis and Athos watch with twin expressions of utter anticipation, both wet-lipped and flushed, Aramis’ arms wrapped under and around Athos’ thighs and Athos nearly drooling to be so _ready_ after so, so long. Porthos doesn’t speak, just lays the other hand lightly on Aramis’ inner thigh and slicks a line behind his balls to Aramis’ waiting hole.

One fingertip first pressing just inside and Aramis holds his breath, brow furrowed, chin to his chest. “You okay?”

Aramis nods, lets out his held breath. “More.”

Aramis’ mouth gapes as Porthos slowly eases past the second ring of muscle. “There,” Porthos says.

Aramis scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “More,” he says, mouth left hanging open, breath coming in shallow puffs.

Another finger. Porthos scissors them wider and Aramis’ eyes roll back. And then it’s this for a minute, for five, no one cares because Aramis could not be sexier than this, laid open, thighs fallen wide, braced in Athos’ lap and still thrusting, swallowing Porthos’ fingers. _Wanting_.

Soon Aramis unwraps one arm from Athos’ leg and holds the condom out for Porthos, who kisses his belly with what Athos would describe as breathtaking care before he takes it.

Porthos bites the wrapper open, fingers too slick to rely on, and rolls the condom onto himself. It’s already lubed but he smears his slick fingers over it to be sure, doesn’t want to hurt Aramis any more than he has to, wants to make it easy. He kisses Aramis’ sternum, his jaw, his still gaping lips, holding his cock at Aramis’ hole, and then Aramis nods and Porthos pushes inside. A little, a little more and Aramis lets out a breath, Athos is dead silent and Porthos pushes further, more and even more until his body is thrusting without his control, without permission, Aramis feels so _good_. Aramis’ hard cock between them, Aramis’ thighs clutching his hips, Aramis moving to meet every blessed thrust and Porthos is not going to last, this is going to be the world’s fastest fuck, he is not going to make it.

At least he can try to satisfy Aramis in the moments he’s got before this is over, so Porthos reaches between them, resting his forehead on Aramis’ face, sweat mixing with sweat, and pulls Aramis’ cock through his fist.

Porthos’ hand is still slick, there’s sweat everywhere and Aramis’ cock has been weeping since the library if he’s honest, so it is perfect and Aramis has to warn him, has to tell him “I’m going to come” between thrusts, between breaths, so much for the virtuoso, he’s going to come grunting like a teenager in Porthos’ palm and does just moments later, clenching down on Porthos’ cock with the force of it so that Porthos comes with what Aramis will later tauntingly dub a roar.

It is Athos who speaks the first discernible words. “I will never forget this as long as I live.”

Aramis chuckles. So does Porthos, and slips out of Aramis to a disappointed whine.

“Let me get you a towel,” Athos offers, lifting Aramis’ head so he can slide out from under him.

Aramis lets his head roll to the side while Porthos gets rid of his condom and Athos closes the door to the bathroom behind him. “Kiss me again,” Aramis says when Porthos returns to the bed and Porthos does gladly, a sweet, soft thing. Aramis just knows his eyes are sparkling at Porthos, he could be a cartoon for all his cliché mooning and puppy eyes, but there’s no stopping it now. Porthos, for his part, has a laid-back smile on his face that could calm a storm.

Athos returns to the bed a warm, moist towel for each of them. “May I?” he asks Porthos, who is too happily fucked out to mind anything at all. Athos kneels in front of him, his hand wrapped in the towel, and he rubs over Porthos’ cock with something like reverence. Still lying on his back, Aramis watches Athos’ gentle ministrations, the unmistakable care with which he handles him.

When Athos turns to Aramis, he doesn’t have to ask. “Yes,” Aramis answers without a question, “please.” Athos drapes the second towel over his palm and begins just to the side of his cock, wiping away lube and come in gentle strokes, then over his cock from base to tip, under and over. Then his balls, so lightly, around behind and down to where Aramis is still raw and sore. Aramis winces before Athos reaches his hole but once he’s there Aramis sighs at Athos’ soft touch.

“There has to be something,” Porthos says, watching Athos fold the towels and toss them into a bin in the bathroom. “Something we can do for you.”

Aramis raises an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” Athos tells them, sitting on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed beside two gloriously nude men.

Aramis can’t help but see that Athos is still hard. “Let us take care of that,” he says, nodding to Athos’ lap.

“I. I can’t,” he says, brushing imaginary lint from his trousers.

“Like, physically can’t?” Aramis shifts to prop his head up like Porthos’. “At all?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Athos is quick to clarify, a laughably hollow gesture for someone who has no intention of really explaining anything. “I can, physically. I just. Shouldn’t.”

“No wedding ring,” Porthos says to Aramis.

“Why shouldn’t you?” Aramis asks Athos.

“It’s a long story. I haven’t. Not for a long time. Never expected to be with anyone again. Ever.”

“But here you are,” Porthos says.

“And here we are,” Aramis continues.

Athos glances at them both, then down again. Their combined gaze is searing. “We can’t fuck.”

“Okay,” Aramis agrees, gentling him with just his voice. “Can I taste you?”

Athos shudders at the naked honesty of his question. He would trade the world to say yes. “No. But.”

Porthos sits up, slips a hand along Athos’ jaw, and lets his lips linger on Athos’ a moment. “Our hands,” he finishes for Athos, and Athos nods.

Aramis grins wide. “I’m pretty good with my hands, you know.”

Athos gasps and laughs at the same time. “Yes, I. I saw.”

Now Aramis is kneeling too, hands on him, unbuttoning his shirt, unfastening his fly and it is too much for Athos to do anything but close his eyes and savor it, savor hands pushing his shirt off his shoulders, untucking his t-shirt and tugging it up and off, hands encouraging him to kneel with them on the bed so they can pull his trousers down his hips, and his boxers, down his hips to his knees. Athos slides off the edge of the bed and lets the fabric fall, toes his socks off, shoes long gone by now. Then hands again, four of them, pull him by his arms back to the bed.

“Promise me, no mouths. Nothing inside.”

There is a finger under Athos’ chin, lifting. He opens his eyes; it’s Aramis. “We promise. Trust us.”

“I do,” Athos whispers. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

“Good,” Porthos says, his voice soothing. “Leave it to us.” And with that Porthos is cradling Athos’ head, kissing him deep and warm, and laying him back on the bed between him and Aramis. Aramis stretches out next to him, pressed against his side, fingers carding through his hair, earlobe sucked between his teeth. Porthos lays a hand on Athos’ chest, firm and reassuring, and nuzzles his cheek.

“Wait, wait,” Athos stutters, eyes darting between them.

“Too much?” Aramis asks, rolling a bit away.

“No, just.” Athos lifts Aramis’ left hand to his lips, gazes at it, kisses the tip of each of his slender fingers, kisses the palm, drinking in its elegance, its strength. He turns it over, kisses each knuckle, studying it with each kiss, drawing a sigh from deep in Aramis’ chest. Then Porthos’ hand, larger, wider, gets the same treatment, the same adoring scrutiny.

Soon hands are moving over Athos’ body, too many to keep track of – one feathering over his thigh, one behind his ear, turning his face toward open lips. There’s another in his hair, one trailing down his chest, down his belly. Athos loses track of which is which, whose is whose. He has never in his life been this hard but then it is has been years, he doesn’t want to calculate how many, _that_ long. Hands are getting closer to his desperately throbbing cock, he should call this off. But when Aramis whispers “ready?” in his ear Athos finds himself nodding, eyes falling shut now at the first touch of a hand to his cock.

“I’ve got you,” Porthos whispers in his other ear.

Athos licks his lips. Porthos takes him in his large fist, envelops him, no movement at first, just lets Athos get used to the feeling. Athos could come just from this. Another hand on his thigh, Aramis’ hand, moves inward and, _God_ , up to Athos’ balls. Aramis feathers a light touch over Athos’ delicate skin. There’s a moment, a hush, and then – _together_ – Porthos pulls a stroke up and Aramis tugs gently down and Athos bites his lip, hard. “Fuck.”

Aramis kisses the corner of Athos’ mouth, licks into it, sucks at his bottom lip while Porthos pulls long strokes, squeezing as he goes, and Aramis winds mesmerizing circles on his balls. Porthos has his earlobe, breathes against his ear. It’s impossibly good, Athos thrusts without thought into Porthos’ fist and clever Aramis lets his fingers wander lower, just behind to that patch of devastatingly sensitive skin, not inside, Athos tenses when Aramis gets there but Aramis soothes him with a hum into his mouth, and then two fingertips brush intoxicating circles there, in time with Porthos’ strokes.

Porthos is sure Athos is about to come. Aramis can feel it too, more and more intense in his kiss, in the way his body is moving against them both, when suddenly Athos pushes their hands away, grabbing for the top sheet. He covers his cock with it and spurts with what sounds like a sob into the fabric.

Aramis glances at Porthos, who gives a tiny, worried shrug in response. They sit up, waiting just behind Athos’ back. “Did I hurt you?” Porthos asks.

Athos shakes his head. His breath is still coming heavy, maybe too heavy to speak.

Aramis kisses Athos’ shoulder, leaves his lips pressed there for a long moment. “You were amazing,” he says, finally.

“You,” Athos attempts. Another breath, then, “you two. I’ve never. _You_ were amazing.”

No explanation for the sheet, and maybe there isn’t really one to be given. Porthos and Aramis share another look. Athos isn’t visibly upset. It’s not what either of them expected, but there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong.

Porthos finally falls back onto the bed. “What time is it?” he asks.

Aramis twists to see the alarm clock. “Late,” he says, “almost four.”

Athos turns to face them. “Stay,” he presses. “Please sleep here tonight.”

Aramis kisses Athos’ cheek and flomps back into the comforter. Porthos, scooting up the bed to lay his head on the pillows, says with a wink, “only if you can find another sheet lying around.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos soon joins in, wrapping his arms around both of them, and they stand like that, rocking a little, breathing together. A quiet voice in Porthos’ head points out that it’s pretty weird, but Porthos argues it down – what part of this whole thing isn’t weird? For a man with only a handful of partners in his past, all friends first, and exactly zero experience with threesomes of any configuration, there isn’t an inch of this that isn’t new. So he tells that voice to suck it and squeezes Aramis and Athos tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Offered with gratitude for your patience while I did work-y things all week and weekend.

Aramis sleeps on his back, arms splayed wide or shoved under his pillow, and instead of snoring like a normal person he periodically lets out an earthy, satisfied sigh like he’s stepping into a warm bath. It’s very distracting, enough that by ten, not nearly late enough considering how late they finally fell asleep, Porthos is lying awake on his side, watching and _listening_.

Athos got up with the sun, showered and dressed before Porthos could rouse himself. The best Porthos could do was rub his eyes, will them to open enough to recognize a dapper Athos leaning over him to press a fond kiss to his forehead. “Sleep,” Athos insisted, and Porthos did, like the dead.

And there it was, that horrible time after someone dies when every figure of speech that comes out of your mouth has to do with death: “I’m dying to,” “you killed it,” “dead tired.” It was going to be a long couple of days, sitting with death, dealing with Mama’s arrangements, comforting her friends that all swear they were like her family.

A long couple of days, made better if more complicated by this… whatever it is. By Aramis, stretched out beside him, and Athos, beautiful and mysteriously damaged. They are a distraction at least, a soft place to land in the off hours while Porthos is here in town.

There’s a deep breath and a stretch that would rival any cat’s and then Aramis opens his eyes. He looks at the ceiling, at the door, the clock on the bedside and finally, with a grin, at Porthos who has been enjoying the whole display. “Hey,” Aramis rumbles.

“Hey,” Porthos answers. His smile is light and easy.

“Where’s Athos?”

“Working.”

“Is he okay?”

“Seemed okay, I think.”

Aramis curls onto his side to face Porthos, sliding closer to him, hips first. “G’morning,” he says, his eyelids drifting closed.

Porthos returns that too, utterly charmed by sleepy, cuddly Aramis. “Morning.”

Aramis’ eyes open a sliver and drift closed again, a good if ultimately abandoned attempt at day. So Porthos scoots near enough to slide his arm under Aramis’ head, gathering him close, and Aramis helps, pressing himself into Porthos’ chest, nuzzling into Porthos’ neck.

A few more breaths like that and Aramis slides his hand over Porthos’ side, skating lazily over the muscles that wrap back to front, down to his waist, over his hip. Porthos exhales a little thickly at fingers at play over him and threads his own fingers into Aramis’ messy hair. Aramis hums at Porthos’ touch and arcs his body, sliding his morning-hard cock against Porthos’. They move slowly against each other, savoring the tangle of limbs, the feverish warmth of sleepy skin until they both grow urgent.

Aramis, eyes still closed but body now wide awake, rolls Porthos onto his back. No need for condoms, no need for penetration, they need nothing more right now than the added pressure of Aramis’ weight. Their rhythm is slow and imperfect as Aramis sucks at the hollow below Porthos’ ear and Porthos holds Aramis’ hips, holds his ass and fucks up against him until he comes. Aramis’ pauses, hovers above Porthos, Aramis may be close but he is _not done_ , and drops his forehead to touch Porthos’, rolling it, impatient. A few moments to catch his breath and Porthos reaches between them, gives Aramis his fist to fuck, to give him resistance and that is ultimately what does it.

They have twenty, maybe thirty seconds before one of them can’t stand the layer of semen between them.

Porthos lifts Aramis’ head from where it lies on Porthos’ chest and holds Aramis’ face for a kiss.

But Aramis twists out of his hold. “Toothpaste,” he apologizes.

Porthos grimaces, covering his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Not you, me.” Aramis buries a kiss behind Porthos’ ear and pads into the bathroom.

Porthos rubs his eyes again, checks his breath. He could go down to his room, brush his teeth quickly, be back in less than a minute. He could spend the day in bed with Aramis and pretend he’s here on vacation.

“Porthos.” Aramis’ voice is low from behind the bathroom door. “Oh, Athos.”

“What is it?” Porthos asks. Something in his tone sends a worried chill up his neck.

Inside the bathroom, Aramis has the top drawer open and a wad of tissue paper in his hand. Porthos stands behind him, looks down to find toothpaste, yes, but also several medicine bottles.

“Retrovir,” Aramis says, not turning around. When Porthos doesn’t say anything, Aramis continues. “AZT.”

That, Porthos has heard of. “Jesus.”

“That’s why he wouldn’t… and the sheet… and. God. Athos.” Aramis shuts the drawer, braces his arms on the edge of the counter, and lets his head just fall.

* * *

 

They venture downtown for coffee and food. Aramis announces they have to make a stop, and though Porthos has at least a dozen things he should be doing, he comes along.

The downtown Planned Parenthood is a small storefront. There are two picketers outside tracing an oval on the sidewalk, holding white posterboard signs on sticks – _don’t kill your baby_ , one says, with a huge photograph of what looks like a bloody, horribly premature infant. The other sign shouts in block letters ABORTION IS MURDER.

Aramis rolls his eyes and darts right through their little picket line.

Porthos follows, bemused. “Emergency breast exam?” he asks Aramis while they wait at the reception counter.

“Advanced supplies,” Aramis explains. “For us, for Athos.”

“Wait,” Porthos says, standing between Aramis and the reception desk, blocking it really. “You’re not serious.”

Aramis cranes his head to look down the hallway for someone to help them. “Of course I am. Regular condoms are fine for anal, but I’m not sucking on a condom covered with lube.”

“We can’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He said he doesn’t want any of that. If it’s because -- if he’s sick and he’s protecting us, I say let him.”

“May I help you?” the receptionist interrupts, a little loudly. She’s young, fresh, probably college age, with short dark hair, wire rim glasses, and an intelligent, pugnacious expression.

Aramis steps around Porthos but leaves a hand on Porthos’ hip because they are not finished with this conversation. “We’re looking for non-lubricated condoms, finger cots, and some dental dams.”

“Sure,” she says, pleasantly business-like.

“And any information you have on safe sex with HIV,” Aramis adds, glancing at Porthos.

“Got that too,” she says with an understanding smile. “Be right back.”

“I’ve had partners with HIV before and I’m still negative,” Aramis continues to Porthos. “I know what’s possible with the right supplies. If his limits last night were there to protect us, then I want to be the first to show him he doesn’t have to give up so much.”

“And if that’s just what he likes?”

“Then we’ll hear the laundry going downstairs a lot more often.” Porthos glares at Aramis. Aramis smiles back. “You’re worried.”

Porthos shrugs, his lips a line.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t have be scared of this. Or of him.”

Porthos heaves a sigh. He’s just not in a hurry to follow his last family member into the ground, no matter how intriguing and vulnerable and gentle Athos is.

* * *

 

On the way back to the hotel Porthos confides that he doesn’t exactly have a suit for the funeral. With a twinkle in his eye, Aramis insists they turn back and find one for him.

There aren’t many men’s wear shops to choose from, but eventually they track down a Macy’s and take the escalator to the top floor. Porthos all but shouts his displeasure at the very concept of shopping. He glares at the mannequins, at the other shoppers, at the bright fluorescent lighting, at everything but Aramis really, who appears to be having the time of his life.

Men’s wear is dotted with leather benches over taupe carpet, oak clothing racks, serious looking clerks only slightly too stylishly dressed to be accountants. Everything looks like a supper club and Aramis loves it all. For the record, he would be as happy shopping with any of his women friends, whether the décor was 70s club chic or country kitsch. It’s the pageantry, the sense of pretend that ignites his playfulness. He lifts a forest green leather bomber jacket to his chest just off the escalator; Porthos scowls.

“If you want to help, then help,” he grumbles.

Aramis bites back a grin and leads the way to the suits along the back wall.

“So what style do you like? Traditional, modern fit, something with flair?”

“Absolutely no flair.” Porthos frowns at the line of suit jackets. “Funeral, so black,” he says.

 _It is not nice to find his discomfort entertaining_ , Aramis reminds himself, _even if it is adorable as hell_. “Got it. What do your other suits look like?”

Porthos raises an eyebrow at Aramis.

“Okay, then.”Aramis stands back and looks, really looks at Porthos. Wide shoulders, long torso, strength from head to toe. But his clothes – Aramis realizes _all_ his clothes, since the first night – aren’t much of anything at all. Jeans, t-shirts, a button down one day, the leather jacket. They fit him because of his physique, not because they suit him particularly well. Unhelpful from a styling perspective, not much to go on, but there’s a great silver lining: most everything is going to wear well on him. “Let’s try a few basic styles and see what you like.”

“I really don’t care as long as it’s cheap and it fits.”

Aramis turns to the suit jackets, hiding a grin that refuses to be suppressed. He selects two boxier jackets, two slimmer, and one with a touch of sheen – he guesses that Porthos will hate it, but at least he’ll get to see Porthos in it first. Trousers with all of them and yeah, there may have to be altering because Porthos has an ass that defies ready-to-wear.

“Dressing rooms,” Aramis orders, marching Porthos in front of him through the threshold.

Aramis hangs the suits around the large dressing room and suggests Porthos start easy with the more traditional styles, then ducks out.

“I’ll be right out here if you need me for other sizes, styles, whatever,” he calls from just outside the dressing rooms, and so what if “whatever” sounds like he’s flirting?

Porthos makes quick work of the suit jackets. Aramis overhears “ugh” and “seriously?” but Porthos doesn’t call for Aramis until he’s nearly finished and is standing, door open, in one of the slimmer jackets, still in jeans.

From behind a grinning Aramis – it’s an excellent fit, though it could be taken in a little at the hips – comes a sales clerk. He is in a suit himself, drab brown with a beige shirt and tie. “May I help you?” he asks.

Porthos shakes his head fast, pressing his lips together into a tight line, and dismisses him with a decisive “we’re good.”

Once the clerk is back on the floor, though just barely, Aramis catches the threshold of the dressing room and leans his chest in with a smirk. “Should I ask him where he got his suit?”

“So we can bomb it?”

Aramis can’t answer for laughing.

Porthos buttons the top button. “This one works.” It really does. “I can’t afford it, but I can’t afford any of them, so.”

“Credit card?” Aramis suggests. “To be repaid at a future, more flush time?”

“Or I could put out a tip jar at the reception.”

“I for one would pay to see you wear that jacket. What about the pants?”

“Do I have to?”

“You really do.”

Porthos shrugs. “Well then, in or out?”

“In,” Aramis answers, eyes flashing. “Always in.”

Porthos smirks as he closes the door behind them. “Attempting to corrupt a man in mourning. Very bad form.”

Aramis pushes the jacket off of Porthos’ shoulders. His voice drops low. “Judging by last night, you were already fully corrupted before I came along.”

“Do you feel like we’re cheating on Athos?”

Aramis drapes the jacket on the padded corner bench. “Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you worry about him finding us here? Alone?”

After a few seconds, Porthos shakes his head. “Just invite him to join us, if he wanted to.”

“Right. And this morning, I mean. I think we’re good.” He pops the top button of Porthos' jeans. “I say we enjoy this for whatever it is in the time we have.”

Porthos watches Aramis slip his hand, palm against Porthos’ skin, inside Porthos’ jeans. “Tell me we’re skipping the pants thing.”

“We are not,” Aramis tells him, and pushes his jeans down his legs, kneeling as he gets to Porthos’ calves. He turns his face up to Porthos, the look just filthy, and pulls off his shoes, then the jeans, until Porthos is standing in faded black socks with worn heels and navy boxer briefs tight around his thighs.

Aramis stands, brushing his chest against Porthos’ cock, _that_ close to him, dragging tensed fingers over the backs of Porthos’ legs. “With an ass like this,” Aramis simmers, “you have to be sure.”

Porthos curls a thrust against Aramis and Aramis returns the sentiment with a lingering peck.

“Don’t mean to distract you. Now put some pants on.”

Porthos has to step back to reach them, and to will his cock down, now is really not the time and it makes trying on trousers so much more difficult. He drops his head back, pushing out a frustrated breath, and shakes out the pants by the waistband. “Fine,” he concedes.

When they’re on – when he’s tucked his half-hard cock into them and carefully zipped them up – Aramis turns him around. The fabric strains a little across his ass, but not so much that they don’t still work. He smooths the pockets at Porthos’ hips. “How do they feel?” Aramis asks at his shoulder.

“Fine? I don’t know. They fit.”

“They sure do.”

Porthos turns around so Aramis can see his eyes roll. “Are they too long?”

If anything, they could be a quarter inch longer, but Aramis decides not to care, and definitely not to mention it. It’s miraculous enough that Porthos is happy with them and their only tiny flaw is in the length. “They’re good. Shirt? Tie?”

“Covered.”

Aramis stands taller. “Tell me.”

Another eye roll. Porthos is so done. “Gray shirt. Black tie. You approve?”

This time, Aramis takes Porthos’ chin in one hand and pulls him down to kiss him. “You’ll be dashing.”

“It’s a funeral. I need to be… funereal.”

“Let’s compromise at somber. And don’t worry, you will be. Can you help it if all the old ladies ogle you while you’re giving the eulogy?”

“Fuck,” Porthos almost shouts, out of nowhere. “I still have to write the eulogy.”

* * *

 

That’s it, then. Of twelve Marsh & Egan apartment buildings only eleven are fit to stand, and all need immediate work. Athos would usually celebrate such uncharacteristically fortunate results.

But that last one, twenty four apartments, mostly families. Condemned.

Athos feels like he’s failing Aramis. Ridiculous. He’s known Aramis less than a week.

Displacing tenants hasn’t bothered him before. They always manage to find new places to live or they move in with extended family. At least, that’s what he imagines happens. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t worry about them, just knows that by taking down their predatory landlords, he’s helping them.

But now he suspects that’s not enough. Now he’s imagining telling Aramis tonight about the deal and seeing disappointment transform the man’s features. Blame. Rejection.

It’s a risk his firm runs every time they take over a building, that the city will find it unfit for habitation after sometimes decades of neglect. And once the city determines that, demolition follows shortly after.

Athos signs papers, flanked by his two lead attorneys on the sale, for more than an hour at the end of the day, including one acknowledging the city’s right to demolish the property on Fourth.

* * *

* * *

 

After the dim January sun has set and the night turned much, much colder, and after Athos has walked the three miles and back to the doomed building on Fourth, to witness his failure, he finds Porthos poking at piano keys in the library.

Porthos stops when he hears footsteps and looks up to see a pink-nosed Athos in the doorway. “You’re back late.”

“Long day.”

Porthos hates the part of himself that worries about touching Athos, letting him in. He wants to be more like Aramis: _invest in latex and the world’s your oyster_ , he said. Porthos thinks back on the pamphlet from Planned Parenthood, folded twice and shoved into his pocket, which cited studies showing that kisses are safe and latex protection is effective.

As long as Athos wants it, they can give Athos the affection and satisfaction he hasn’t allowed himself.

And just look at Athos, bags like bruises under his eyes, shoulders scrunched from the cold. It hurts Porthos’ heart to imagine Athos resigning himself to a life alone.

So Porthos scoots over and pats the bench beside him. “Come sit,” he suggests.

Yesterday’s Athos would wave him off, _very kind but I’m exhausted_ , and leave to stew in his room. But after last night, Athos finds he wants to stay. He shrugs his coat off and slides in next to Porthos with a deep breath.

Porthos wraps his arm around Athos’ shoulders and tugs him close. Athos lets his head fall against Porthos’ shoulder, lets himself be enveloped, lets Porthos press a kiss against Athos’ forehead.

“Tomorrow’s only going to be worse,” Athos murmurs.

“Tell me about it,” Porthos drones with a gallows laugh. “I’m going to a funeral.”

“It’s tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’ve been dreading tomorrow since I got the call. No, longer, for years. She was old, I knew it was coming, and she lasted longer than most.” Porthos lets out a slow breath. “But we were talking about you. What’s so shitty about your tomorrow?”

Athos sits up, turning to face Porthos. “If I may ask, what is it about the funeral that worries you?”

“Worries? Public speaking isn’t my favorite thing. The art I make, I’m really a builder, you know? I weld things, I hammer things. Don’t get a lot of practice talking to groups.”

“Well, under the circumstances, no one expects you to be suave or charismatic.”

“I just don’t want to lose it in front of a bunch of strangers or start cursing in front of the congregation.”

Athos grins. The image of Porthos raging – at the world, at creation, at complacent acquaintances – is surprisingly enticing. But he pushes that aside for now. “If you’d like some suggestions, I may be able to help. I speak in public regularly and haven’t always been much good at it.”

Porthos sniffs, studies his hands folded in his lap. “Thanks, I’m okay. That’s really the least of it. Mama was my last living relative. I was an orphan young – my mother died when I was five and Mama, her mother, took me in. It just. Feels like being orphaned all over again.”

“Were you and your grandmother close?”

“That’s the thing, we were but we weren’t. She encouraged me to move away, go to art school. She told me she didn’t want me wasting my time looking after an old woman. So I didn’t, but now.”

“Now you wish you had?”

Porthos blinks slowly. “Last few years, I called when I could but only visited her at Christmas. Didn’t have a car and flights were expensive. Her friends talk about how they were like her family and you know, I’m sure that’s true because her own grandson, the only real family she had left, abandoned her.”

Athos lays a still-cold hand on Porthos’ thigh. “You couldn’t have saved her. People get old. They die. Had you been with her every hour you still couldn’t have prevented it.”

Porthos shakes his head. “And all her friends? I’m going to stand up there in front of them, cracking open, while they look daggers at me for leaving her to slowly die alone.”

Athos rubs Porthos’ leg. He wants to help, to tell him not to worry about them, to focus on what he has to do and then leave and heal. More than that, he wants to help him heal, but the best he can do is lean into him and capture his lips in a tender kiss.

When Athos pulls away, Porthos’ eyes are still closed. “It’s going to be okay,” Athos whispers. “You’re going to be okay.”

Porthos kisses back, cradling Athos’ jaw in his hand. “Thank you.” They both smile. “Now you. Long day? Did the deal fall apart?”

“It went through, actually. Just. Lots of paperwork,” Athos hedges, and Porthos furrows his brow in sympathy. If only that were all of it.

* * *

 

When Aramis comes back after his gig he finds that Athos and Porthos have laid out a tray of past-midnight snacks in the library: fruit, cheese, wine, and little tomato tarts with what looks like goat cheese.

“Look at all this,” Aramis marvels. “Nice work, gentlemen.”

“You didn’t eat before you left – figured you’d be hungry,” Porthos explained.

“Did you make these?” Aramis asks, popping a tart into his mouth.

Porthos takes one, too. “Are you kidding? I can barely make toast. No, we found them in the fridge downstairs. Good, yeah?”

His mouth brimming, the throaty grunts of pleasure Aramis makes around the tart are almost sexual.

“How was tonight?” Athos asks when Aramis finally swallows. “Good audience?”

Aramis almost says he wishes they had come, but it’s just selfish and he doesn’t want to be like that. Not out loud, anyway. “Voracious. Excellent taste. How’d the deal go?”

Athos feels sick about it, worse faced with Aramis. “It went.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?”

Athos nods, biting at his lip.

Leaving a hand on Athos’ shoulder, Aramis turns to Porthos. “And you, all done?”

Porthos shrugs. “It’s. What it is.”

Aramis twists a grape off its stem and pops it in his mouth. “Then what are we waiting for?”

It’s then that Athos realizes his other motivation to raid the kitchen. Not just to please Aramis, but to put off whatever might ensue. “We thought you might pause a few minutes at least,” Athos explains, “to eat something.”

Porthos scowls. “We made you a post-gig feast.”

Still chewing his grape, Aramis places a sweet peck on Athos’ lips. “It’s perfect.” He kisses Porthos too, erasing his frown. “I love it. Let’s bring it along.” Lifting the tray, he leads the way upstairs.

“Shall we meet you upstairs then?” Athos asks when Aramis stops in front of a door on the second floor landing and hands him the tray.

Aramis unlocks the door, a smirk on his face. “Like I said, it’s the size of the bed that matters, and mine is a king, same as yours. Porthos?”

“How is it that the biggest man here gets the smallest bed?” Porthos complains.

But then the door is open and Aramis gestures for them all to come in. Athos sets the food on a desk – a vanity really, small and ornate, just big enough for the tray and Aramis’ wallet, key, and harmonica dropped now beside it.

Porthos lies back across the bed, arms folded behind his head, and looks around. Aramis shuts the bathroom door to take a piss.

And that’s when Athos catches sight of a plastic bag on the bed and his heart nearly stops. Planned Parenthood? It could be anything, he rushes to assure himself. It could be free condoms and lube, maybe Aramis doesn’t get paid until the end of the week and Porthos didn’t have the cash to buy what they needed elsewhere. Could be. Better be, because that is the only explanation that doesn’t involve Aramis and possibly Porthos – definitely Porthos, he would have said something about a Planned Parenthood bag if he didn’t expect it to be there – knowing what they don’t know.

Athos is staring hard enough at the bag that it wouldn’t be a surprise if it burst into flames. He hears Aramis come out, hears the sink turn on, turn off. Porthos sits up, probably watching Athos stand stock still. It’s weird for a person not to move like this. _Be casual_. _Move._

If he had told a single person after he told Anne, if he had some practice talking about it with anyone but his medical team, he might be able to move.

Aramis hand is light on Athos’ shoulder. “Want to open it?”

Athos has his hands full breathing in and out, to be honest. He licks his lips, gets ready to nod. Still doesn’t move.

Aramis presses a kiss to Athos’ shoulder, leaves his lips there a moment. “This morning I went looking in your bathroom for toothpaste.”

Athos’ eyes close. His breath stops. Maybe if he doesn’t let it start again he won’t have to face them both.

“It’s okay,” Aramis whispers.

“It’s not. It’s terminal. It’s only ever terminal.”

“How sick are you right now?”

Athos huffs a rueful laugh. “A blood test today might not even register that I have it. Good meds. As you saw.”

“You could live with it for decades this way, Athos. As long as you would have lived without it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not terminal.”

“ _Life_ is terminal,” Porthos offers. “Everybody dies.”

Athos shakes his head. “Yeah, but unlike you and almost everyone else on the planet, I’m weaponized.”

Aramis turns Athos by the shoulders to look him in the eye. “You are not. If we take precautions – the same precautions we should be taking anyway – then everybody’s happy and everyone stays safe.”

Athos is shaking his head even as Aramis is talking. “It’s impossible,” he insists.

Porthos holds a colorful pamphlet up in front of Athos’ face. “Know what this says? It says latex is effective. And we’ve got tons of latex in that bag. All shapes and sizes.”

“It’s too much of a risk, Porthos --”

“Science says it’s not.”

Athos just shakes his head some more.

Aramis finally takes both Athos’ hands. “It’s up to you. I’ve had partners with HIV; I know how to be safe. Porthos and I have talked about it. He’s not worried. But ultimately, the choice is yours.”

“Then I choose not to.” The words rush out of him.

Porthos lays a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “Really? Even after last night?”

Athos laughs, a hollow sound. “God, especially after last night. It was humiliating.”

At that, Aramis drops Athos’ hands to fold his arms across his own chest. “The hand job?”

Athos rolls his eyes. “The sheet. I didn’t know what to do. I was overwhelmed by – God, by both of you, together, and being there with you, I wanted.” He stops, tries to breathe. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been with anyone?”

Aramis lets his hands fall to his sides. Porthos squeezes Athos’ shoulder.

“Eighteen years.”

There is more, but Aramis is crowding him now, taking Athos in his arms. Holding him.

Porthos soon joins in, wrapping his arms around both of them, and they stand like that, rocking a little, breathing together. A quiet voice in Porthos’ head points out that it’s pretty weird, but Porthos argues it down – what part of this whole thing isn’t weird? For a man with only a handful of partners in his past, all friends first, and exactly zero experience with threesomes of any configuration, there isn’t an inch of this that isn’t new. So he tells that voice to suck it and squeezes Aramis and Athos tighter.

Athos stiffens eventually, shakes his head and Aramis and Porthos loosen their hold on him. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says.

Porthos takes Athos’ hands now. “If you really don’t want to be with us because you’re not interested, not attracted, you don’t like men, then whatever, fine.”

Athos licks his lips, glaring past Porthos to where the Planned Parenthood sits, mocking him.

Porthos’ voice drops lower. “But if you’re only leaving to protect us from getting it, don’t. It’s my choice if I want to take the risk. It’s Aramis’ choice. Let us make it.”

Athos’ heart pounds once, hard, like it’s restarting itself after long dormant years. “You don’t know,” Athos murmurs, still unwilling to look Porthos in the eye.

Aramis is behind him, hands on Athos’ hips, breath and voice at his ear. “It’s on us. Let it go, Athos.”

Porthos watches Athos’ eyelids fall closed.

Then, even softer, Aramis whispers at Athos’ ear, “kiss me.”

Is it Aramis’ whisper, his insistence that prompts Athos to try? Is it recklessness or is it trust? Whatever it is, Athos twists between them with a deep, hissing breath, turning around to give himself over. He pushes so hard against Aramis that Aramis has to take a step back to keep from falling backwards. Athos cradles Aramis’ jaw in his palms and kisses him completely – drinks him in, taking ownership of lips and breath and direction. He licks over Aramis’ tongue, pushes his lips open wider. When a smile sneaks over the corners of Aramis’ lips, Athos takes that, too.

Behind him, Porthos shifts his weight and settles his hands on Athos’ waist. They move with Athos when he clutches Aramis closer, slide lower as Porthos presses his hips against Athos. And now Porthos’ breath is warm on Athos’ neck, his lips hovering what must be less than an inch away.

Athos twists again and seizes those lips with a wisp of a groan. Aramis, kiss-bitten and slow, just watches Athos take and Porthos yield, watches Porthos bend at the knees just enough to meet Athos’ mouth, watches Athos squeeze his arms around Porthos so hard that Porthos chuckles.

Athos pulls away long enough to ask them what exactly is in the bag, and then he’s back to Porthos’ swollen lips.

“Everything,” Aramis simmers, reaching between them to unfasten Athos’ belt and slide it slowly out of its loops. Then it’s Athos’ shirt he undoes, button by button, tugs it out of his waistband and off, then the t-shirt underneath while Athos, lips still all but sealed to Porthos’, toes off his shoes.

Aramis traces the lines of Athos’ back, scratching light lines over it with gentle fingernails. Where they bloom pink, Aramis soothes them with soft lips.

Athos pulls at Porthos’ fly, tugging the buttons open before pulling Porthos’ t-shirt up and over the back of his head. Porthos gives himself over to Athos, lets himself be handled, moved, undressed. Aramis and Porthos can both sense Athos’ intensity mounting and Porthos wants nothing more than to be a vessel for it.

“Bed,” Athos breathes against Porthos’ cheek and Porthos obliges, climbing backwards onto it until his head finds pillows. Athos strips down without taking his eyes off of Porthos’ wide, warm chest, tight curls of chest hair and lower, to his cock curving heavy and hard.

Before Athos even needs to ask, Aramis dumps the bag of latex out on the edge of the bed. “Take your pick,” Aramis tells him.

Athos rakes his fingers through the reassuring array, and there: plain latex condoms, no lube. Slipping one packet gingerly between his teeth, he climbs between Porthos bent legs, lets his hands fall lightly on Porthos’ knees.

Porthos licks his lips when Athos rips open the condom packet, eyes locked with Athos’, breath shallow. He is all anticipation – almost all, all but a small spark of fear. And he sees it mirrored back at him in Athos’ eyes, an old fear, swollen and dark. He focuses on that, reaches for Athos’ hand and squeezes it, pumps a small encouraging nod.

Athos’ eyes are wide when he tears them from Porthos’ to take out the condom. “You have no idea how I wish I didn’t have to use this,” he says, holding the thin circle between two fingers. “How I wish I could taste you.”

“Athos,” Aramis says, his voice cracking with emotion, now seated beside them on the bed.

Porthos takes the condom from Athos. “Me too,” he whispers, rolling it onto his cock, circling the base with thumb and index finger.

Athos traces Porthos’ fingers with his own and bends, bracing himself on one arm, to touch soft, moist lips to the tip of Porthos’ cock. Aramis watches Athos’ entire torso, hovering above Porthos’ now-fallen legs, fill with a deep breath. Another kiss, a lick, and then Athos winds a spiral down Porthos’ shaft with his tongue, wetting the latex so he can finally, with a groaning sigh, slide Porthos’ cock deep into his mouth.

Porthos’ eyelids fall closed as his fist closes around a handful of Aramis’ duvet.

Aramis watches Athos lose himself between Porthos’ thighs, sucking his cock in to the hilt and breathing his scent deep before pulling tight lips back to the tip. There is just a hint of furrow to Porthos’ brow and his lips are open as his breath comes slow and raspy. They are both so gorgeous here, so lost, Porthos’ belly rising with his breath and with the gentle thrust of his hips into Athos’ mouth, Athos on all fours – three really, his one bicep stretching long until overtaken by the curve of his shoulder, his hips pushing little thrusts in time with Porthos’.

Aramis can’t simply watch. He takes off his shirt quietly, doesn’t want to disturb them but needs to be part of this. Needs to give Athos some pleasure without distracting him from Porthos. So he rolls a finger cot on his middle finger and smears it with lube, more than is probably necessary, and moves behind Athos. He lays a warm palm on the small of Athos’ back, “just look at you,” and smooths it down over Athos’ ass. He feels Athos still and waits until, with a sigh, Athos’ body yields backwards, his ass pushing against Aramis’ palm, opening for him. Aramis slides his wet finger down his crack to swirl at his hole and then pushes the pad just inside.

When Athos sucks Porthos’ cock deep, Aramis takes it as a sign and pushes further, his warm hand anchoring Athos’ hip. Athos’ mouth is too full to communicate anything but groans of pleasure and he does, taking out every new wave of Aramis’ pressure on Porthos’ cock until, with a slow grunt, Porthos stiffens and comes.

Aramis pulls his finger out when Athos lets go of Porthos, and then they are all hands – Aramis’ hand slipping up Athos’ side as he raises himself to kneeling, Porthos reaching to stroke his fingers down Athos’ arm before squeezing the condom off. Athos watches with something like sadness and Porthos, with a smirk, wipes his finger over a smear of come on his cock. He holds it up and Athos, eyelids falling closed, opens his mouth for it, sucking Porthos over his tongue.

Athos face is soft with pleasure, his eyes still closed, when Porthos gets up to throw away the condom and clean himself up. Aramis whispers, “I want to be inside you,” from behind him and Athos nods, biting his bottom lip.

When Porthos gets back Aramis has gotten rid of every last bit of clothing and Athos is twisting to pull him into a messy kiss. “Please,” he murmurs against Aramis’ mouth, and “yes.”

Athos doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t hold back. “Lie down,” he tells Aramis, and Aramis is only too happy to follow directions.

“What do you need?” Aramis asks, one hand playing in the pile beside him.

Athos rips open a lubed condom. “Just this,” and rolls it onto Aramis cock with firm fingers. Now it’s both of their mouths hanging open, jaws loose and breath heavy, as Athos straddles Aramis, kisses him once, and works himself on Aramis’ cock.

 _It has been an impossibly long time_ , Athos thinks. _How did I live without this?_ And then, stabbing his heart like cold steel, _how will I live without this again?_ Aramis spread out beneath him, wide and insistent inside him, Porthos beside them, so much _want_ and the promise, the very real promise of _getting_ \--

But Athos’ own cock is weeping now, it's too dangerous, he’s murmuring “no, no, no,” and Porthos’ hand is on him.

“What’s wrong?” Aramis asks him.

Athos looks, wild-eyed, at his leaking cock. “I need something, a sheet, I don’t want to --”

Porthos reaches across them for a condom. “This?”

“Okay,” Athos says, “give it to me.” His hands are shaking, he has to rip the packet open with his teeth but he gets it, the condom is lubed, whatever, he just has to cover himself, seal himself away so he can’t hurt them. “I should have known, I wasn’t thinking --”

Aramis’ hands are strong on Athos’ hips, holding him there. “It’s okay, Athos. You’re okay.”

“But are _you_ okay? Why are we doing this? We’re crazy to even --”

Aramis curls a slow thrust. “Shhh. I’m fine.” Another thrust, and Athos’ mouth falls open again. “This is good, Athos, it’s good. You’re good.”

Porthos slides a wide palm over Athos’ chest, down his belly. It’s reassuring, it _is_ going to be fine, and it is honestly _so good_.

Aramis clutches Athos’ hips now, thrusting up hard. “Give it to me, Athos. Give it all to me.”

Athos can only stretch around Aramis and surrender to Porthos' fist tightening around Athos’ cock. Porthos kneels beside him, an arm around Athos’ waist to brace him there so Athos can push himself down onto Aramis, to meet Aramis’ thrusts and give his own cock again and again to Porthos. Athos has never been alive like this, he is flying, body bowing out like a sail, never felt this good in his entire life. His orgasm gathers slowly and he rides its explosion, igniting Aramis within moments, who grips Athos’ thighs with hands like claws.

Athos falls forward and presses a fervent kiss to Aramis’ sternum. Sitting back up, the memory of the building on Fourth flares in his mind. Tomorrow, he’ll bring it up. Maybe.

There are washcloths and Aramis takes a quick shower which Porthos half considers joining but his body is limp and happy so he stays where he is. Athos finally pulls on his boxers and climbs under the covers beside Aramis and his shower-steamed skin. On Aramis’ other side, Porthos lays a heavy arm across Aramis’ belly. They are fine, they are all okay and asleep not half an hour later.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afterward they wait, Athos trying to be unobtrusive, Aramis stretching to catch Porthos’ attention. When he succeeds, Porthos’ eyes blare a sudden, breathtaking joy and he pushes past the grieving, milling masses to get to Athos and Aramis.

Anxiety wakes Porthos before dawn. He’s too keyed up about the funeral to lie in bed – his knees want to bounce and suddenly everything sort of itches – so he gets up and goes to his own room. It’s not even five yet but he can’t imagine crawling under his covers and trying to sleep, not now. He showers, lets the water scald his skin, lets his mind project forward to what’s coming: people, waves and waves of people he won’t recognize, people who say they met him at Christmas, who’ve heard about him from Mama. People who expect something from him.

Eventually he realizes he’s staring at himself in the mirror with a mouthful of toothpaste, frozen, mind a million miles away. He rinses his mouth and downs two plastic cups of water in quick succession before wrapping a towel around his hips and turning off the bathroom light. His room is still dark, the blanket of night lifting only at the edges, barely lightening outside his window in the spaces between buildings. He still has three hours until the reverend wants him at the church to meet the guys with the casket. Four hours until people start showing up. Five hours until the funeral starts.

He wishes for the day he imagines Aramis will have. Sleep late, lunch wherever. He’ll be blown by his own whims, then cap it off with a show, gleaming like a diamond under those lights.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know when Aramis is leaving. Doesn’t know when Athos is going, either. The air rushes out of him at the realization and he starts, half stands to go to them. What if Aramis is leaving today? What if Athos is out on a plane tonight? He doesn’t know.

Someone would have said _something_. Wouldn’t they?

But it would be cruel to wake them up to pester them about their travel plans. And that’s not what’s important today, anyway. Just an excuse not to think about burying Mama. Isn’t it?

Paralyzed, pulled in opposite directions, he sits on the edge of the bed and turns on the TV. Local news, he doesn’t really listen because it all sounds the same, looks like a crisp weekend but no rain expected until Monday, semi overturned on the interstate, is your phone giving you diabetes? Porthos yearns for oblivion, wishes he could close his eyes, wishes he could catch a bus home right now and not hate himself for it. No, he wishes he could go upstairs and climb back in bed with Aramis and Athos, let them hold him tight and turn the volume down on everything else in the world.

* * *

 

Aramis can barely hear Athos’ breath as he sleeps. As far as he can tell, Athos hasn’t moved the entire night, still on his side, arm bent under the pillow. It’s so polite, Aramis muses, but then he remembers what Athos said, that he hasn’t been with anyone for eighteen years. A child could grow up in that span. And a man could turn to stone. Aramis imagines him lying still as death night after night, no one accommodate, no one to move for. And Aramis’ heart hurts.

He listens for Porthos, but the room is silent. He must have gone to sleep in his own bed in the night. Aramis considers going to find him. Maybe he doesn’t sleep well with others.

But he’d hate to wake him up. So instead he pads into the bathroom for a shower.

When he comes out of the steamy bathroom in a towel, Athos is sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his face. “Porthos leave already?”

Aramis stops. “Yeah. Leave for what?”

“The funeral is today.”

Of course it is. Aramis kicks himself not to have asked. “Where is it?”

Athos blinks, yawns. Thinks. “No idea.”

“We can find out. Obituary will have the details.”

Athos stands up. “Why would we find out?”

“So we can go.”

“No.”

“Athos. We should go.”

But Athos is shaking his head. “This is personal. Family. We shouldn’t impose.”

Aramis pops the top off of his deodorant and wipes it over one armpit, then the other, and Athos can’t tear his eyes from the beautiful things the stretch does to the muscles in Aramis’ chest and arms. “It’s a public event,” Aramis explains. “And from the sound of it, Porthos doesn’t have anyone there for him, last living relative and all. He could use our support.”

“And do you suppose he’ll come running into our embrace? His two two-night stands?”

“That’s a mouthful,” Aramis mutters to himself. It cuts, Athos’ argument. But he’s not wrong. Would Aramis want someone he was only sleeping with to pass the nights attending a personal function like this? Absolutely not.

But is that all they are to Porthos? Would Aramis want _Porthos_ to show up at a family funeral?

Athos is probably wrong about Porthos. “No, I don’t expect him to come running,” Aramis answers. “But.”

“If anything, our presence would just embarrass him.”

Aramis takes quick offense – in what world would he be an embarrassment? – but then hears the insecurity in Athos’ qualms. “Listen. If he wants to ignore us, he can, I don’t care. If he wants our support, we’ll give it. It’s not about us, is the thing. It’s about being there for him.”

Athos pulls his hair back from his forehead with crooked fingers, staring at the carpet in front of Aramis.

“Plus,” Aramis continues, “there’s usually food at this sort of thing.”

“I can get food elsewhere, thanks.”

Aramis squeezes toothpaste on his toothbrush and runs it under water. “Look, I’m going. I could be wrong, but from what I know of Porthos I think he’ll be glad I’m there. And considering that, how do you think it would look if you weren’t?”

* * *

 

It’s not until they reach Zion AME Church – in a dark sedan, Athos texts and minutes later the car is there, all black leather on the inside, essentially a limo -- and see a white hearse waiting out front that Aramis feels it like a bolt: of fucking course terminal Athos doesn’t want to go to funerals.

“Shit,” Aramis says, stopping on the sidewalk to face Athos. The sun is bright; they both have to squint. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

“What?”

“That you wouldn’t want to go to a funeral.”

Athos shades his eyes with his hand so he can watch a boy scuffing his dress shoes along the ground. “I told you I didn’t want to go.”

“But not – I thought you didn’t want to impose. Not, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

Aramis widens his eyes, nodding at Athos in a very “you know” sort of way.

“Aramis. I’ve had two decades to come to terms with dying. I’m an expert. Along the way I’ve buried a brother, both parents…” A wife. “When I said I didn’t want to impose, I meant exactly that. I didn’t want to step into a realm of Porthos’ life he might want to keep private.”

Aramis waits, still unsure. There’s clearly more, there has to be.

“Honestly.”

But Aramis won’t push, not now anyway, so he settles his hat on his head and touches his hand to Athos’ back, getting them both moving again in the direction of the large wooden front doors. “I think you underestimate how we feel about you,” he says, squinting again into the sunlight.

Athos doesn’t think so, but nevertheless lets the word _we_ echo in his ears.

Inside the church is warm, the yellow light of dozens of incandescent lights in the high ceiling mixing with the daylight filling the tall windows. There are carnations everywhere, all different colors in arrangements perched around the room. A cascade of pink carnations covers the bottom half of the open white casket in the front of the church. There are easily a hundred people standing in the aisles, talking between pews, many dressed in black but plenty in white or bright colors.

Athos watches Aramis take off his hat at the door and can’t help but give him a dubious look. Aramis shrugs, _what kind of a heathen do you take me for?,_ and holds his hat to his chest. Athos chuckles, and they both scan the room for Porthos. There aren’t many men, far more women, shouldn’t be too difficult.

Porthos is there, standing off to the side, near the front, surrounded. He’s listening, nodding, the only man in a circle of women. One puts her hand on his arm. The woman next to her pats his cheek. Porthos nods, makes his lips a line.

Athos checks his watch. “Should be starting any minute,” he tells Aramis, and slides into the last pew.

Aramis follows him, his eyes on Porthos. “He looks miserable.”

“As he should. Wouldn’t want him to appear chipper. Or worse, relieved.”

Aramis chuckles into his lap. “Yeah, but he doesn’t look sad miserable, he looks socially miserable.”

“Maybe.” Athos dislikes churches. He feels conspicuous, ill-fitting, like a sweater that’s shrunk in the wash.

“Not much for church?” Aramis soon asks him.

Christmas eves, Easter Sundays, and four funerals have left him with a bad taste in his mouth when it comes to religion. “Is it so obvious?”

Aramis purses his lips.

Athos turns it around, a more comfortable footing. “But you seem pretty well at ease.”

“The place is humming, it’s dazzling if you let it be. But I was raised Catholic actually. So not entirely my vibe here.”

Athos doesn’t manage to keep his eyebrows from flying upward. “Catholic?” Aramis seems altogether too comfortable in his skin, too sexually free to be any kind of Catholic Athos has ever known.

“Would you believe I considered the priesthood when I was a kid?”

Athos barks a startled laugh. “You would have been a catastrophe as a priest.”

“Maybe. But think how popular I would have been at the seminary.” Aramis’ grin is wide and frankly filthy.

Athos is still laughing when a bald, barrel-chested man with a white stole and a shiny purple tie takes the podium, interrupting them with his amplified welcome. Turns out he’s Reverend Stopes, who declares to the gathering that he loved their sister Liza, everyone did, she was a rock of the community.

Aramis notes the reverend’s musical delivery, the cadence of his speech, the predictable highs and lows of his inflection. There are readings, psalms. Friends stand, make jokes about recipes, cry and are held.

The choir stands to sing “What a friend we have in Jesus,” a double dozen singers, mostly older, in long fuchsia robes. There’s a warbling, flat soprano and a tenor who’s at least a third high.

Aramis shakes his head when they start the second verse and mutters, “at least they’re trying.”

Athos lays his hand on Aramis’ thigh and Aramis grins, leaning back.

It’s almost over when the reverend finally introduces Liza’s beloved grandson and Porthos stands in the gaping silence, makes his way to the podium, adjusts the microphone as high as it will go and still has to bend for it to pick up his voice. “Thank you for coming,” he begins with a voice fragile from disuse, and unfolds the yellow pages torn from his legal pad.

Aramis watches Porthos’ downcast face, the expressions that he refuses to allow. His cheeks, lips, eyes twitch toward feeling, but he doesn’t cry, doesn’t smile. He only tells them what he must think they want to hear: that her friends were her family, this church was her home. That she was an angel on earth and no one knew it better than he did. That she believed in him and gave him wings. That he wouldn’t be the man he is today without her, none of them would. She touched everyone in this room because she lived right, and she lived in love.

Athos notices that he doesn’t once mention Jesus or heaven, and that the whole angel and wings thing sounds like a hollow metaphor coming from him.

Then suddenly he’s done, folding his pages again and lurching back to his seat, and a sour, airy organ starts. A short, middle-aged woman from the front row of the choir walks past the podium and opens her arms.

“Precious Lord,” she begins, drawing out each word into its own belabored phrase, “take my hand.” It’s nothing like Aretha’s version, not even close to Mahalia Jackson’s. Her voice is big but brash, a bull in a china shop as she calls each line. Aramis wishes there could have been even one beautiful thing at Porthos’ Mama’s funeral.

In the front row, Porthos hangs his head.

* * *

 

Afterward they wait, Athos trying to be unobtrusive, Aramis stretching to catch Porthos’ attention. When he succeeds, Porthos’ eyes blare a sudden, breathtaking joy and he pushes past the grieving, milling masses to get to Athos and Aramis.

Porthos’ eyes are ringed with red. He is raw, skin dewy with spent tears. “You came. You’re here.”

Athos scowls at Aramis. “Told you we shouldn’t have come.”

Aramis rolls his eyes at Athos, then turns to Porthos. “We’ll leave if you want us to.”

Porthos’ brow is low over his eyes. “Since you’re here, I mean, might as well stick around.”

Athos lays a cool hand on Porthos’ bicep. “Glad to.”

Porthos gaze lingers on Athos, then on Aramis. He lets out a deep breath. “When did you come?”

“Saw the whole thing,” Athos tells him.

“You did great,” Aramis adds.

Porthos settles his hands on his hips, scans the crowd, and twists to find a door. “Come on,” he says, darting through it.

They follow him into a quiet hallway lined with more doors. Classrooms, for Sunday school by the look of them. Porthos looks up and down the hall before throwing open a door covered in cloud stickers, and drags them inside by their forearms, Athos concerned and Aramis all playful anticipation.

Porthos has them both against the wall before the door latches closed again, smearing a messy kiss over Aramis’ mouth, then Athos’. “You’re here,” he says, moving back to Aramis, massaging the side of Athos’ neck at the same time.

Aramis takes Porthos’ face in his two hands and levels him a warm look. “You okay?”

Porthos stretches to kiss Aramis’ lips lightly. “Tough day.”

“Did the old ladies give you a hard time?” Athos asks.

Porthos shrugs. Aramis slides his palms over Porthos’ shoulders. “I just. Miss her.”

It’s so naked, and Porthos’ breath chokes in his throat, so Aramis slides himself into the crook of Porthos’ shoulder, wrapping his arms around Porthos’ waist. Athos brushes fingers over Porthos’ cheek.

They don’t speak. They give him room to talk about her, about his grief and Porthos looks like he’s going to, takes a deep breath and then, squinting at the door, he shakes his head. “Got to go carry a coffin.”

Aramis squeezes. Athos nods.

“Coming?”

Aramis pats Porthos’ chest before he lets go. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

 

Once the cemetery service is over -- a few prayers and then they lower the coffin into the ground – Aramis and Athos follow everyone to the reception. It’s a small, cozy house with a long table down the center of the dining room covered with casseroles, salads, baskets of rolls, cakes. While Porthos is swarmed by women his mother’s and grandmother’s age, Aramis joins Athos in a quiet corner.

Aramis quickly gives up trying to cut a polite-sized bite out of the macaroni and cheese crust with his dull plastic fork. “So how is it that you’re not working today?”

Athos stares at him for a moment. “You asked me to be here.”

Aramis bites his lip to keep from grinning. “Sorry, yes, thank you for coming along. What I mean is, now that the deal is done, are you all finished?”

Athos sighs. All of this – Aramis and Porthos, the upheaval in the deal, last minute changes, and an entire day devoted to meditating on death – has taken a real toll, he realizes. Now he’s crammed in a corner, surrounded by big, emotional bodies. “I moved today’s meeting to tomorrow.”

“You moved it for me?” Aramis smirks, pretending to be flattered.

“For Porthos,” Athos drones. But the correction sounds harsh in his ears. It’s a small, mean dig, to take that from Aramis – he did it for both of them – and worse, Athos knows he's being petty because he’s hiding something. More than anything, it’s the lie of omission that has Athos so drained and grumpy.

Aramis pumps a quick nod. “Good.”

“Also because there’s something.” Athos’ lungs stop then, no breath in or out, as if to keep him from telling Aramis. He wills a cough, and begins again. “One of the buildings has been condemned.”

“That sucks.” Aramis takes a bite of something drippy, flecks of broccoli. “I assume. Does it suck?”

“It does. Particularly for the twenty-four families that live there.”

Aramis whistles a sigh. “Where are you going to move them?”

Athos watches the line move along the buffet table. “Nowhere,” he finally answers. “The other buildings are fully occupied.”

Aramis turns to face Athos, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “Come on, every building in the city? The ones you took over might be, but I mean, you can’t just kick them out on the street. That’s worse than being a shitty landlord. That’s making them homeless.”

Athos doesn’t say anything. He is too busy screaming at himself inside his head.

“That can’t happen,” Aramis insists.

“I know.”

“Athos, you have to do something.”

“I know.”

They are both silent. Aramis glares at Athos while Athos looks blindly across the room.

Athos grits his teeth. There’s nothing to be done. At least disappointing Aramis will make leaving easier. He hears Aramis sigh, then ask, softer now, “you know what would be great?”

“If we had never taken over the building?”

“Well, yeah.” Aramis drops his plate on a side table. “If they had something harder than coffee here.”

“Agreed.”

Aramis rubs the back of his neck. “This is terrible.”

“Used to it by now. Usually we have more notice on the demolition, a month maybe. Charleston is surprisingly efficient.”

“What do you normally do for the residents?”

“What we can: offer stipends for moving expenses, compile numbers for local apartment rentals.”

When Athos doesn’t add to the list, Aramis huffs an incredulous laugh. “That’s it?”

“It’s really all we can do under the circumstances.”

“Under the circumstances of making them _homeless_?” Aramis looks around. Porthos catches his eye from across the room and grins apologetically, so Aramis gives him a slow blink before he whips back to Athos. “Doesn’t feel like enough.”

“We can’t make the building safe again. We intervene in the only way we can, and I think on balance we make a difference for the better. But we’re not magicians.”

“You mean you can’t just build a whole new building and move them into it?”

That gives Athos pause. A new building.

“Like I said, I’d be shit in business. Don’t ever hire me.” Aramis adjusts his hat, stretches to catch sight of the front door. “I need some air.”

But Athos stands frozen, spinning the notion in his mind. An entirely new building. It’s impossible to build one in time, of course, it was just a joke but what if…

He checks his watch, already growing antsy with possibility. It’s almost two and whether or not he can make something out of this crazy idea, he has hours and hours of work waiting.

Aramis has already been scooped up by a clutch of older ladies when Athos comes looking for him, offering him a ride. Aramis waves him off. “I’ll wait here for Porthos. You go.”

Aramis’ disappointment in him bothers Athos more than it should.

Back at the hotel, Athos takes out his phone and opens his laptop. D’Artagnan is online. He’s almost always available, an important trait in an assistant, and truth be told he’s not bad to look at. Not that he’s looking. He opens a chat window and dives in.

 

AF: How far have you gotten on the stipends?

d’Artagnan: About to cut the checks now. Problem?

AF: Double them.

d’Artagnan: ?

AF: I’ll deal with LB. They haven’t risen with cost of living and he knows it. Also, look into empty apartment buildings here in Charleston. Under construction, renovation. Not crap.

d’Artagnan: For takeover? Purchase?

AF: Whatever is fastest. See if you can get that inspector out to any possibilities by 5 so we can move on the best one.

d’Artagnan: Three hours. Got it. Size?

AF: 24 apartments min.

d’Artagnan: Coincidence?

AF: No. It’s a long shot.

d’Artagnan: I’m on it.

 

Next Athos calls the lead attorney, a fastidious hawk of a man with an initial for a first name, and puts him on alert just in case.

Athos has no reason to feel lighter. Nothing has been achieved. And even if he manages a miracle, he’ll still have to deal with the fallout at the office when he gets back. But hope has him floating.

Within half an hour, d’Artagnan calls. “Somebody up there loves you.”

It couldn’t be less true, but Athos will take it. “Good news?”

“Catherine’s division has a property that’s almost ready to open. Thirty apartments, mostly two bedroom. She’s holding the launch until next month, adding some bling to push the rents higher.”

“Downtown?”

“Would you believe it’s a block and a half away from the property on Fourth?”

Athos lets go a quiet chuckle. Astonishing luck.

“But it’s Catherine.”

“Yeah.” Athos scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “I’ll call her. You get the inspector over there, make sure it’s good to go.”

“She’s going to lose her shit.” D’Artagnan’s laugh bubbles low over the phone. “Can I listen in?”

Athos cracks a silent smile. “You worry about the inspector, I’ll worry about everything else. And listen, d’Artagnan: thank you.”

“Oh, believe me, this is thanks enough.”

“What is?”

“ _This_. Doing this. This is how we should deal with the buildings we lose from now on.”

“We won’t always get this lucky, d’Artagnan. And even if we did, it would cost us a shitload to make it a habit.”

“But _we_ can afford it. The tenants can’t.”

* * *

 

Aramis watches Porthos closely as the reception winds down. He never sits, hasn’t touched a bite of food despite plate after plate offered by well-meaning, floral-smelling women with kind faces. Porthos nods a lot.

He looks great in the suit.

It occurs to Aramis that there is no background music. He looks longingly at a dusty Wurlitzer hulking on one wall of the living room and sees how Porthos might have been deprived of music as a child. It could have meant a lot to an orphaned black kid growing up without much to spare in Charleston. The way Porthos reacted even to plinking out a melody on the piano at the hotel, all of his questions after he came to see Aramis play…

Aramis could fall for him. Hard.

He knows he shouldn’t. But man, he really could.

The afternoon is winding down when Aramis finally pats Porthos’ shoulder, interrupting another bittersweet story. “I have to head back,” Aramis says.

“I’ll come with you,” Porthos rushes to add.

The woman talking to Porthos holds his arm. “Already? At least let me pack you up some food.”

Porthos is shaking his head, stepping right into Aramis. “I don’t have anywhere to keep it.”

Not true and Aramis knows it; the refrigerator is big and empty enough to fit most of the food out on the buffet table. But Aramis pumps a nod anyway, and forms his mouth into an apologetic grimace.

“Now Porthos,” the woman says, stopping him with her tone alone. “You call me when you get home, y’hear?”

“As soon as I’m back and we’ll coordinate all that shipping. Thank you, Ruby.”

“Yes, thank you,” Aramis echoes, gently tugging at Porthos’ bicep. “This was all beautiful.” Is she even the hostess? Aramis doesn’t know but Porthos is launching himself out the front door.

“And you are?” she asks Aramis.

“Gonna be late,” Aramis calls from the threshold before darting to catch up with Porthos, already at the sidewalk with no sign of slowing.

* * *

 

The CEO is Athos’ first call. Louis Bourbon is a figurehead at best, a spoiled kid grown into a spoiled man. He inherited the job fresh out of college. Enjoys being in charge. Doesn’t much know what that really means. But ultimately transferring the property to Athos’ division is Louis’ decision. And once made, Treville will follow Louis’ orders.

As ever, Louis bends with a little flattery – _this is exactly the kind of public relations the firm needs, the idea came from you actually, in a meeting a month or two ago, very smart, don’t you remember? I should have acted on it sooner, really._ Louis remembers, of course he does, and he’s so pleased that _someone_ in the organization took some initiative here.

Treville zeroes right in on the financing. Athos’ division needs more income, ironically like Catherine is cultivating, not this menagerie of low end properties Athos seems intent on accumulating.

“They only start out that way and you know it.”

Treville does know it, which is why he’s willing to entertain endorsing this inter-divisional transfer. “Can the new residents afford Catherine’s place?”

“They can if we don’t go through with a needless upgrade. If it’s clean and safe, everything up to code, then we’re good to go and they can move in immediately.”

“Catherine won’t be happy.”

“I know.” Athos stops, leans forward. “What do you think? Am I crazy?”

“Honestly?” Athos can hear Treville’s chair squeak over the phone line as he sits too far back in it, the way he always does. “You could use more of Catherine’s instinct for profit.”

Treville knows him well.

“It’s not a smart move, this thing,” Treville continues. “But it’s a good move. The right move.”

* * *

 

“It’s just hard to be alone,” Porthos finally says. “It’s just. Even as a kid, there was this hole. When my mother died. My memory of her, it’s so small. Fragments, pictures I don’t even trust anymore, I mean, I was so small. And Mama wanted me to call her Grandma, I had forgotten, but I remembered today. She tried to teach me. I was so stubborn. I called her Mama and she would say _baby, your mama’s with the angels now_ , and she’d always cry a little too because that was _her_ baby, you know. But I didn’t understand that, or I didn’t care, and that hole where my mother used to be was so big. Too big for a kid, it took up almost all of me.”

Aramis feels his throat choking up, his eyes glistening. Porthos is speaking so simply. So like a child. He can hear it, can see the child in him, lost and empty.

“I never thought about what it must have been like for her that I called her Mama. Not until today. Was she glad she could hear someone call her that again? Or did it hurt every single time, to be reminded what she lost?”

There’s a hitch in Porthos’ voice. Aramis smooths his palm over Porthos’ shoulders.

“And then it was just habit and she let it be, I guess.”

Aramis watches Porthos lick his lips, watches a tear fall. “She was glad to raise you. Everyone said so.”

Porthos nods, and he sniffs to stifle a sob. “All day, they kept telling me stories about her I never knew. I wanted to listen and not be an asshole. I wanted to be grateful but after a while I just couldn’t. It made me feel like I never knew her. Never thought about _her_ , about what _she_ needed or wanted.”

“No, Porthos, it seems like that now. But I’m sure you did.”

“She was so good. And strong. And selfless, man, you’ve never met a person so generous.”

“I know,” Aramis says.

“And she made the best pancakes you’ve ever had in your life.” Aramis laughs. A sympathetic tear escapes down his cheek. “I’m gonna miss those pancakes. And her hugs. I mean, she got frail there at the end but she still knew how to squeeze. This tiny little woman, and she still squeezed me like I was a kid. Poured her love into every hug, I’m telling you.” Porthos' eyes and cheeks are wet with tears as he looks pleadingly at Aramis, who is biting his bottom lip and crying, too. “I was so lucky, Aramis.”

Aramis nods, he can’t speak, and wraps his arm around the back of Porthos’ waist. They stop right there on the sidewalk.

“I was so lucky.” And Porthos lets his forehead fall on Aramis’ shoulder, and Aramis wraps him up as tight as he can.

* * *

 

“You can’t do this.”

“Louis approved it. It’s done.”

“You _fucking snake_ ,” Catherine spits.

Athos was prepared for her anger. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself she has no recourse. Reminds himself there's a greater good here. “If it helps, you should know you’re saving several dozen people from real hardship.”

“I couldn’t give a flaming shit! This was _my_ deal. _Mine_.”

“And I want you to know how I appreciate your cooperation on this.”

“How are you even still _employed_?! We aren’t a goddamn charity. You have to _make fucking money_ , de la Fère.”

“Well, maybe that shouldn’t always be the bottom line.”

“I can’t fucking believe this. I knew you were a simpering piece of shit, but stealing? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Athos does feel sorry for her, in a way. He was once as single-minded as she is. Kept his eye on the profit margin, made choices that kept him rising up that ladder. He knows what this must be like for her, how her heart is racing, her mind scrambling for an alternative. Maybe she’s already spent the bonus she was expecting.

But it’s happening, and it’s the right thing, and he didn’t actually need to answer the phone when she called. It was just a courtesy.

“You are not stealing my property from under my nose. You are _not_. I’m calling Louis.”

“It was his idea.” It’s not fair, but a story is a story and he might as well stick with it.

“My _ass_ it was!” Her breath hisses over the line. But Athos can hear the defeat settling in. “Watch your back. Seriously.”

“Is that a threat, Catherine?”

“It’s a promise, is what it is.”

* * *

 

When they get close enough to downtown to see a few cabs Aramis hails one to take them both to the hotel. Porthos grows quiet again, staring all the way back, vague and absent when Aramis brings him upstairs to his room.

Then Porthos turns in the doorway, leaning his temple against the threshold, and lifts his gaze about as high as Aramis’ chest. “I hate being back here in Charleston. It’ll be good to get home.”

“When do you leave?” Aramis hears himself ask and immediately shouts his curiosity down. _No_ , he reminds himself, _don’t do this to yourself. Make a clean break._ Doesn’t matter if this is going to be a hard goodbye, Aramis knows better. But it’s too late, the question is out there and Aramis is sure the answer is tomorrow and that makes his breath falter.

“Monday. Still have tomorrow to wrap up loose ends. And sleep.”

Aramis can’t look him in the eye for the sudden wave of relief. He frowns agreement, nods.

“You leaving tomorrow?” Porthos asks.

“Monday morning, actually,” Aramis answers, and swallows hard.

He hears a rush of breath from Porthos and sees his body wilt against the door jamb. “Thank God. We have one more day.”

At that Aramis’ gaze flies to Porthos’ face, to a faint, raw smile there. _Thank God is right_ , Aramis thinks and seizes Porthos’ smile, kissing him with what he’s sure is transparent relief. He pushes Porthos back with the strength of it, back into his room, and somehow the door gets closed behind them and Aramis is kissing Porthos with something like desperation.

This has all gotten so out of hand. Aramis has been on the road more than off for years now. He enjoys the diversion of these little affairs, savors the flirtation and electricity of first kisses, the discovery of new bodies with his own. Little, first, _new_. He has even come to cherish the romance of the goodbye, because each one is its own kind of beautiful, its own kind of tragic.

But _this_ , this thing with Porthos and Athos means much more to him. _They_ mean more to him, each of them on their own and God help him, both of them together, than anyone he’s ever slept with on the road. Anyone, full stop, if he’s honest.

This goodbye is going to hurt. His heart is already sore at the thought, he’s far past protecting himself anymore, so he tightens his hold on the back of Porthos’ neck and slides his tongue alongside Porthos’, licking over the roof of his mouth and sucking at his top lip, stubble and all.

Porthos smiles a little, enough that his lips pull away from this kiss with it, and Aramis tries not to look but there it is, Porthos' melancholy face beaming at him and Aramis can feel himself mirroring Porthos’ smile right back. Porthos threads his fingers through Aramis hair and it feels exactly right, the definition of perfect. He tries to memorize the sensation as he nuzzles his nose under Porthos’ jaw, nips at the thick muscle on the side of his neck as he pushes Porthos’ suit jacket off his shoulders. He undoes Porthos’ tie, unbuttons his shirt and leaves kisses over his t-shirt in their place.

Porthos watches Aramis, more serious than he’s seen him since they met, all furrowed eyebrows and determined mouth. Porthos’ belt is unfastened next, Porthos lets it happen because Aramis seems to need this. This is different from the playful want of days past. Aramis lets Porthos’ trousers go; Porthos’ legs are wide enough apart that they don’t fall all the way to the ground but gather around his thighs, and now Aramis’ fingers are pushing under the elastic of Porthos’ underwear and over his ass, pushing them down over his hips with the movement of Aramis’ hands over Porthos’ skin.

And then Aramis kneels.

Porthos’ eyelids drift closed with Aramis’ first lick, a thick, wet stripe up the vein. Aramis holds Porthos’ ass in both hands, there is no play, no art to this, Aramis takes Porthos’ cock between his lips and sucks it slow over his tongue. It’s a messy in and out, he doesn’t protect himself from gagging but pushes Porthos’ cock deeper with his hands, encourages Porthos’ to fuck his mouth. Porthos lets his left hand fall to Aramis’ head, fingers in his soft hair again, not to guide but to caress.

Aramis sucks him down, swallows as best he can around Porthos, eyes watering and the scent of Porthos filling his lungs. He sucks harder when he hears Porthos’ breath catch, when Porthos’ right hand finds Aramis’ left arm and they hold each other’s arms that way, fingers clutching forearms as Aramis absorbs Porthos’ thrusts. Aramis wishes this could last forever but at the same time he wants Porthos’ to come, wants to feel him convulse against his face and spill hot into his mouth. Porthos’ hand tightens into a fist in his hair and Aramis’ eyes roll back as he comes on Aramis’ tongue and Aramis wonders if he’ll ever recover from leaving him.

* * *

 

Brendan, a new hire in the legal department, boy-thin and energetic, meets Athos at the new building to give him a tour. Large foyer, high windows, space for a coffee shop on the first floor. The apartments are large and white, with balconies on the east side of the building. Catherine did a nice job choosing the place, and though he can see where the upgrades might have been – the kitchens have an oak coziness that wouldn’t show well to bigger earners today – none seem crucial.

Brendan brings the letters d’Artagnan sent him for printing: 680 Fourth is slated for demolition on Wednesday 1/17; Louis Bourbon LLC has taken over management of Marsh & Egan Properties, is now offering new leases on apartments of the same or larger square footage at 2350 Rosemont with no rate increase for tenants at 680 Fourth; movers available at no cost beginning 10am Sunday, 1/14. Stipends for additional expenses and inconvenience to be delivered Monday 1/15 to Fourth or Rosemont, whichever tenant prefers, please contact Charles d’Artagnan at the following number.

Athos pushes them under each door himself. The entry windows at 680 Fourth are grimy and dark, and there’s water damage in nearly every hallway. Broken elevator, so he walks the stair wells under flickering or burned-out lights. Smells like garbage and mildew.

Athos can’t remember a time he felt so good.

* * *

 

It’s after eight when Athos gets back to the hotel, wired from the frantic pace of the afternoon and suddenly starving. He finds Porthos in the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator, both doors swung wide. “We may be taking this a bit far,” Athos quips from the doorway. “It’s not actually our home, after all.”

“I should have let Ruby pack me up some of those casseroles,” Porthos says. “I need more than cheese and grapes.”

“Let’s go get dinner. Where’s Aramis?”

Porthos closes the refrigerator. His eyes are puffy from sleep and, Athos expects, from crying. “Already left for his show.”

“Go without him?”

“As long as we end up at the show after. Food first?”

“Food first,” Athos agrees.

They arrive at the Blue Moon thirty minutes into the first set with half-finished cartons of beef sesame noodles, and sit in the back. Porthos gets them drinks from the bar and they settle in to watch their Aramis be amazing.

Porthos sinks into his chair, melts into its curve. He can feel the stress of the day drain away in the darkness as he listens. Aramis glows in the stage lights, luridly bright. His hands bounce and skate over the keys and the beat seems to live inside his chest, moving him at its whim. Then he stills, bends his neck back to look at the drummer, the bass player, and something silent passes between them. Chuck holds his trumpet, shining like an idol, against his lips that widen to suck in last minute breath before he crushes his eyes shut and blows. Porthos’ gaze shifts back to Aramis, always back to him, to watch his expression go soft while he supports Chuck’s new line.

Athos sips his wine and watches Aramis play. Unlike the trumpet player, the bass player and presumably the drummer, this isn’t Aramis’ own piano. It’s not even a piano Aramis played before he came to Charleston. Athos considers Aramis having to adapt to each new piano he plays, gig after gig, city after city. Are they interchangeable? Or is it like meeting someone new? Does it feel like a one-night stand to Aramis, brushing his fingers over new keys, bending his knees under its anonymous, familiar form? Are some pianos a pleasant surprise? Or is Aramis sometimes disappointed to discover dull strings, a piano long out of tune from neglect, key edges sharp enough to cut him?

Are there pianos he’ll miss?

Now Porthos notices they’re playing something familiar. Chuck’s line croons rather than blasts and under it, Aramis’ accompaniment is thick, almost orchestral. Chords pass like pillars down a courtyard passageway, collecting toward the turn, and then the refrain returns and Athos gasps. Porthos turns in his seat.

Almost as soon as Athos catches it Chuck steps back, drops his horn, and Aramis sings, “Precious Lord….”

Porthos reaches for Athos’ hand.

Athos smiles, they both do because the next words out of Aramis’ mouth, in a warm, delicious baritone, are “take my hand.”

He sings in short phrases and he sings long, longing notes, softly with lips almost touching the microphone and loud, leaning back and singing right up to heaven. He sings the gospel song the way it should have been sung for Porthos at the church, from his gut. From his soul. There are people in the audience who raise their hands, all too ready to be in the pews with him, who call out “sing it” and “precious!”

Aramis closes his eyes and gives it all to Porthos, who he hopes is still back at the hotel letting the world whir past unnoticed, cradled in sleep. And when Aramis comes to the end, leaning back and forth with the momentum of the tune, he lets the last chord fall while Chuck blows a closing response up into the stratosphere.

The audience doesn’t just clap, they cheer and howl – enough that Chuck holds a hand out to acknowledge Aramis, so Aramis has to turn to the crowd and bow and that’s when he sees Athos and Porthos there in the back, applauding with the rest of the them.

* * *

 

Aramis rushes to their table as soon as the set break starts. “You’re here,” he marvels.

Porthos stands and crushes him in a huge hug. “That was,” he begins, still clutching him close.

Athos’ hand is warm on Aramis’ back. “Beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

Aramis pulls away enough to look at both of them. He wants to cover them in kisses right here – if it were one of them he might, but two? He leans in between them and says, very low, “come with me.” Then he leads them toward the stage.

They follow him past tables, past Rushi at the bar, past Chuck on his phone in the green room, down a short, dark hallway and out the back door. There’s an alley there, the back doors of a few restaurants, dumpsters and one sputtering streetlight. Aramis waits for the door to latch shut and, with a quick look up and down the alley, holds each by the nape of his neck to kiss first Porthos and then Athos, who gets a last quick peck when he mutters, “déjà vu.”

* * *

 

They walk home together after the show, arms around shoulders, hands in hands because it is too late in the evening to worry about what other people might think. Aramis is aglow after a fantastic night and nearly hopping just to be with them. Athos keeps up, shining his own quiet light. Porthos, bursting with energy in evenings past, begins to flag as the weight of the entire week, of years and years is finally gone. By the time they reach the hotel Aramis is steering a Porthos in the door and up the stairs to his room for the second time today.

“I’m gonna complain about the bed,” Porthos mumbles as he toes off his shoes.

“What’s wrong with the bed?” Athos asks, pulling Porthos’ leather jacket from his arms.

“Can’t fuck you both on it, too small,” Porthos answers, a wisp of a smile under his fluttering eyelids.

“You need sleep,” Athos tells him, refusing to show how charmed he is by an unedited Porthos.

“Don’t go,” Porthos insists, catching the fabric of Athos’ shirt. “Not yet.”

Athos lets himself be moved into a soft kiss and it occurs to him because it feels so incredibly good, held in Porthos’ arms this way, that he hasn’t had the pleasure of yielding for so, so long. Porthos turns Athos’ head to kiss over his jaw, and Athos _yields_.

“We won’t,” Aramis says. “You want us to sleep here with you?”

“No,” Porthos complains, twisting to find Aramis somewhere behind him. “I wanna fuck.”

Aramis brushes Porthos’ forehead with his thumb. “You are a sleepy, sleepy boy.”

“So?”

“Come to bed,” Aramis insists, and lets his trousers fall to the ground. Aramis’ shirt follows, then all but Porthos’ underwear, and Aramis steers a wilting Porthos onto the bed. He pushes him into the middle and, only partially because Porthos won’t let go of Aramis’ arm, climbs in beside him.

Athos, with a wisp of grin at their sweet, intimate display, slides in on the other side of Porthos a moment later. “We’re here.”

“Good,” Porthos murmurs, eyes already closed, lips falling lax. “Let’s never leave.” A breath later he’s snoring, a tender rumble from deep in his chest.

Athos knows not to take words spoken in sleep seriously, and yet they fill his chest with warmth.

On the other side of the bed, Aramis lets go of his last ounce of resistance and silently agrees with Porthos.

Minutes pass as they both stare at the mottled stucco ceiling, until Aramis whispers, “I’m not even close to sleeping.”

“Me neither,” Athos answers.

Aramis laughs lightly. “So how was your afternoon?” he asks, still whispering.

“Productive,” Athos tells him. “It was a good idea, finding another building for them.”

“Wishful thinking. I’d be a wreck in business.”

“I did it.”

Aramis sits up at that, twisting over Porthos’ sleeping body. “What?”

“I got them another building. Move in starts tomorrow.” Athos’ eyes may be grinning like idiots, but at least his mouth is a sober line.

Aramis’ voice erupts with excitement. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.” Athos has to frown to stop his smile.

“Athos!”

“Shhh,” Athos warns as Aramis leaps from the bed and drags Athos into the hallway.

Athos looks up and down the empty, disturbingly well-lit hall as he stands in nothing but boxers. Aramis, in that devastatingly tiny bikini, doesn’t seem to mind. “Tell me everything,” Aramis insists.

“You had a good idea,” Athos repeats. “I wasn’t doing enough, you were right.”

“Maybe, but I was also nuts. Who can summon a building out of nowhere?”

Athos is not going to smirk. He is _not_. “Me, apparently. And it’s right around the corner from their old place.”

“It’s a dump, isn’t it? There’s a catch.”

“It’s not a dump.” He _is_ smirking, he can’t help it, but to be fair, Aramis’ face is bright as a light bulb. “Squeaky clean, checked it out myself. I’ll be down there all day tomorrow overseeing the moves, answering questions. Handing out keys.”

“Athos,” Aramis rasps, practically tackling him, arms around his ribs and body shoved against the wall beside Porthos’ door. _I love you_ is what Aramis thinks, loudly enough it’s a miracle Athos can’t hear it, and _I knew you had it in you._ But “you did it,” is what he says, grinning between kisses.

Athos absorbs Aramis’ enthusiasm, lets it wash over him with each kiss and squeeze. Soon Athos is clutching Aramis against him, skating his palms over Aramis’ back, over his ass and down his thighs, threading fingers up into his hair. Then he takes Aramis’ face in both hands and captures his lips, too hungry himself not to lead.

“Should we go back?” Aramis asks, pressing their foreheads together, glancing toward Porthos’ door hanging just open.

“But it’s your room that has all the goodies,” Athos says, pressing a kiss to Aramis’ cheek.

Aramis gets halfway down the hall, pulling Athos behind him, before he stops, “need the key,” and darts back into Porthos’ room. He comes out with an armful of their clothes, both his and Athos’, and his own key in his teeth.

At the very least, Athos will have the memory of this.

In Aramis’ room they leave the clothes in a pile and roll into each other’s arms. They are slotted together, legs intertwined, cocks hard under fabric. “I could come just like this,” Athos murmurs from under Aramis, _out loud_ , and then goes stiff when he realizes the pure animal truth of what he’s said.

Aramis is oblivious, too sex-swept and blurry to notice Athos’ embarrassment. He curls a thrust along Athos’ cock. “God, me too,” he breathes and seizes Athos’ mouth.

Athos’ body is slim and lithe under Aramis, Athos’ hands finally settling in Aramis’ hair, one leg pressing up hard under Aramis’ balls as Athos grinds his hips upward. Aramis has one hand at the nape of Athos’ neck, holding his head and drinking in kiss after kiss, the other under Athos’ ass, one finger slipping down and pressing through fabric against his hole. They undulate against each other, sweat mixing with sweat and memories of stolen moments when each was young.

It’s a delectable kind of indulgence to rut against Aramis this way, to take and to push, to suck kisses from his lips and be used in return, to feel Aramis’ thrusts gain purpose, to ride them with him and finally to feel their rhythm stutter as Aramis’ body strains and he comes with a groan.

Aramis falls limp at Athos’ side. Athos is still, breathing. Fixing the memory.

“Are you?” Aramis begins, catching Athos’ attention. But Aramis doesn’t finish the question, instead taking a tissue, reaching inside his royal blue bikini briefs – honestly, they’re tiny and perfect – and wiping up come from inside. “Did you?”

Athos blinks slowly. It’s fine.

Aramis’ head falls back to the pillow. “Damn, I thought you were close. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Athos curls to his side, turning his head for a soft kiss.

Aramis rolls onto his side to face him. “Let me help you.”

Athos presses Aramis onto his back. “It was good.”

“I want you to come,” Aramis says, lips open and eyes midnight dark, eyes locked with Athos’ as Athos slides on top of him and thrusts against Aramis’ hip. Aramis exhales a sigh and takes Athos’ ass in his hands, such ideal resistance so Athos pushes his cock, beyond sensitive now, into the hollow of Aramis’ hip, then again. Aramis watches him, one hand reaching up to Athos’ face to cup his cheek, and Athos doesn’t look away. Doesn’t close his eyes. It’s slow, slower almost than Athos can tolerate, he slips his leg between Aramis’ thighs and moves slowly enough that this precious eye contact won’t break. He thrusts slowly and watches Aramis’ face open, watches Aramis look back at him with something so fond it makes Athos’ breath hitch. “Yes,” Aramis says when Athos comes right there against him, and kisses Athos’ forehead as it falls to Aramis’ lips.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Aramis can’t give himself to them forever, he can at least give himself completely right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my sincere apologies for making you wait. Excuses are evil, even when they're true, so I'll just say thank you for coming back to this thing I love.

Athos is used to the struck expressions of shit landlords. There was a time their fury fueled him; even just a few days ago, Ed Marsh’s constipated grimace was worth the trip. But today what he looks forward to, more than anything he’s ever done on behalf of Louis Bourbon, is showing his tenants around the new building. He can’t wait to see their faces when they understand what exactly has happened. He can barely bring himself to stop and grab a cup of tea. (D’Artagnan’s voice rings in his head: _it’ll take five minutes and you won’t have a caffeine headache later_. Athos obliges.)

Aramis is halfway down the stairs, bed hair a halo around his head, when Athos comes out of the breakfast room. “Ready for this?” he asks with droopy eyelids.

“I am,” Athos answers, not smiling exactly but not far from it.

“Can we come see?”

“I’m expected at ten,” Athos explains, reflexively checking his watch. “I really have to go.”

“Where is it? We’ll come later.”

“It won’t be glamorous. Could be ugly.”

“We don’t care.”

“We.” Athos is coming to love the word in the way one loves short-lived things like fall colors and frost. “You’re so sure Porthos wants to join you?”

Aramis is yawning, rolling his eyes. “Yeah.”

Athos flashes a grin at the floor. Aramis’ confidence, his magnetic effect on Porthos, and on him could feel invasive, manipulative, but it doesn’t. It isn’t anything but charming this morning. “If you say so. Six eighty, Fourth street. I’ll be there somewhere.”

“Athos,” Aramis calls as Athos turns to go. “You did good. Enjoy it.”

And then Athos is out the door and Aramis is climbing into Porthos’ bed. Porthos, laid out like a starfish, on his belly with limbs stretched in every direction, takes up all available real estate. Aramis lifts Porthos’ arm and slides under it, moving Porthos just enough to trigger a little tightening around his eyes, a stretch in his shoulders, a hum that becomes a little groan.

“Have I got a story for you,” Aramis begins.

* * *

 

Brendan has that can-do, ready-for-anything look of someone setting out on an adventure. Khakis, running shoes that appear to have been admirably worn in, a William and Mary athletic jacket, and combed hair still moist from the shower.

“Thought you might could use a hand today, sir,” he calls, jogging to where Athos stands, in the wide alley that provides a straight shot to Rosemont.

The movers stand in a semi-circle around Athos, each with an embroidered United lapel badge, not a single one in a coat despite the chill.

Athos nods a greeting at Brendan, ignoring his _might could_. “It’s only a block or so to the new building,” he continues, “so reserve the trucks for big stuff: couches, armoires.”

“Pianos,” Brendan chimes in, and Athos thinks of Aramis. And warms, and sets that thought aside.

A short, broad-shouldered woman in the front pipes up. “We don’t have piano gear.”

“We don’t know what we’re going to be moving,” Athos intervenes, making cautionary eye contact with Brendan. “Let’s just see what we find.”

“Right,” Brendan agrees, hands on hips, all business even as his cheeks flush pink.

“There will be a couple dozen people, including children, coming through here with the smaller stuff.” Athos pats a stack of boxes beside him. “In these garbage bags or even loose. So the less we move those trucks, the better. See anyone carrying something that looks too heavy for them, offer to carry it. Don’t insist. And this may go without saying, but don’t just burst into people’s apartments. I haven’t spoken to anyone in there yet. There could be some very unhappy tenants and I don’t want you in their line of fire. Any problems, concerns, send them to me.”

* * *

 

Porthos is torn between sleeping possibly for the rest of his life, at least for the rest of the morning, and dragging Aramis into the shower with him. Aramis has just left to get ready, a little regretfully which makes the shower idea feel all the more apropos, but once the shower is going and Aramis is in it, he won’t be able to hear the door. So Porthos rushes out of bed, grabs his toothbrush, and darts down the hall to Aramis’ just-cracked door.

Porthos brushes his teeth at Aramis’ sink outside the bathroom while he investigates Aramis’ toiletries: deodorant (the musky, spicy scent he’s come to associate with Aramis), small tub of matte pomade, old razor with new blades.

“Well? You coming or not?” Aramis calls from inside the shower.

Porthos, mouth quickly rinsed, is bare and climbing in with Aramis in seconds. Aramis twists to face Porthos, to lay his arms over Porthos’ shoulders. Porthos holds Aramis around the waist, as if they were dancing and they do sway together, there under the water.

Porthos gazes at Aramis and for a long moment Aramis gazes back, allows something in him to be uncovered. That’s how it feels at least, that he is being laid even more bare, which is careless of him on this last day so he closes the small space between them with a kiss. Aramis lets his eyes fall closed, skims his hands over Porthos’ wide, long back, slick with water, down to the small of his back, tightly curved inward, hard and soft together. Aramis opens his mouth against Porthos’ as his hands explore lower, over the round perfection of Porthos’ ass and they both moan.

Aramis soaps a washcloth while Porthos sucks and licks over Aramis’ neck, determined to distract but Aramis manages to lather it up and then he’s back to Porthos, turning him in his arms so Aramis has his back there before him. He kisses a shoulder blade, then swipes the washcloth over it, kisses a shoulder then rubs the washcloth there. Presses warm kisses down his spine, dragging the washcloth in his wake, until Aramis reaches the small of his back, soap dripping over his face but it doesn’t deter him, he still opens his mouth over one ripe cheek and mouths a gentle bite into the resilient flesh there. Porthos grunts at the pain, at the soft heat of Aramis’ mouth.

And then Aramis is standing, the washcloth forgotten on the ground, dragging firm fingers up the front of Porthos’ leg until he’s behind him again, wet cock hard against Porthos’ ass and Porthos’ own cock encircled by Aramis’ still soapy fingers.

Porthos braces himself against the tile of the shower, gives Aramis enough space to pull strokes slow and slick up his cock in time with his thrusts along Porthos’ crack, skimming over his hole. Water isn’t enough, they would need to prepare Porthos for this not to hurt but Aramis’ care assures Porthos he’s not going to have Aramis’ cock forced inside him, of course not. No, this is about adoration, about letting Aramis adore him. Aramis mouths another soft bite into the meat of Porthos’ shoulder, where it joins his neck, and his pace picks up. Porthos winds one hand back into Aramis’ hair, exhaling a throaty sigh as he feels himself get close, feels it coiling low in his belly and Aramis’ strokes are so steady, so relentless and _good_ that he can’t stop himself coming with a hard breath.

Aramis gives Porthos a moment to recover, chest heaving against Porthos’ back, cock swollen thick and slotted in the crack of Porthos’ ass. But Porthos can feel how ready Aramis is, how close, so that when Porthos curls his hips back into Aramis it is all Aramis needs. His fist still around Porthos’ cock, now to protect it from hard tiles, he presses Porthos full against the wall of the shower and fucks against him, slides mercilessly up his crack, dragging over his hole but never pushing into it. He’s using Porthos’ body, just _using_ it and if Porthos’ weren’t so recently spent the thought of being used this way would surely push him over the edge. Only a few more sharp thrusts, mouth wide open against Porthos’ shoulder, and Aramis comes hot and straining.

* * *

 

Porthos may live in jeans and t-shirts, but Aramis packed exactly one pair for the flight home. With no intention of wearing slacks and shirts meant for the stage to Athos’ work site he makes do with jeans, plus the long-sleeved thermal he only brought in case the weather turned frigid.

Because Aramis wants to be part of it. Not just watch. (Not just watch _Athos_ , which he has to admit is driving him as much as the cab driver is. He’s seen Porthos in not exactly his natural habitat but certainly a personal place. And they have seen him. But Athos’ real life remains opaque to him.

Not for long.)

It’s a bright blue day, crisp winter air warming only slightly under the full sun. The cab lets them out at the mouth of the alley beside 680 Fourth, in front of where Athos stands, with a middle-aged couple, phone in one hand, large garbage bag in the other, and he’s pointing away down the alley toward the far street. The man shakes his head. The woman says something loudly that Athos doesn’t appear to understand. Neither does Porthos.

But Aramis does. With a squeeze of Porthos’ arm, Aramis speeds to Athos’ side.

Athos glances at Aramis. “Hey, nice to see you but I have to --”

Aramis lays a hand on Athos’ shoulder and turns to the woman, speaking to her in hushed, fast Spanish.

Athos is watching him, Aramis can feel it warm on his cheek. He meets Athos’ wide eyes for a split second, then it’s back to this couple who doesn’t understand and only has a little boy, their grandson, to help them today and what is this? They can’t afford a new apartment, this one just needs to be repaired, it’s in their daughter’s name, they don’t want to fill out any paperwork, they have to wait for her.

Aramis explains that the building is being demolished, it’s unsafe and they have a new place – he points, right over there – that is nice and clean and safe, won’t cost them anything more than they already pay. No paperwork quite yet, Aramis understands, Athos can wait for their daughter to sign. Aramis will take them over himself, he assures them, and where’s their grandson?

“Jose?” the woman calls, her voice layered with panic and exhaustion.

“Joe,” the kid corrects, standing up against the wall, there the whole time. He comes over, a boy of not more than eleven, skinny, leggy, with a soccer ball braced under his arm. “Call me Joe.”

“Jose was my grandpa’s name,” Aramis tells him, shaking his hand. “Want to come check out your new apartment with your grandparents? Then afterward we can kick that ball around.”

Aramis’ voice in Spanish is an intimate surprise. There is something new in the tone, some unknown, piquant note when Spanish words fill his mouth, a flow, and a new ease in his hips as he twists to catch Athos’ eye. Athos can’t be held responsible for the look on his face when Aramis glances his way.

Porthos can’t take his eyes off the kid. The kid’s resemblance to his grandfather, hovering there beside Aramis. How the grandmother so plainly worries. Porthos is so porous right now. There’s nothing to protect him from the resonance any random thing may have with his grief. But then there’s Aramis, his care, his tenderness with this family. He lets that settle into him instead.

Athos holds out the key for Aramis. “Apartment 311.”

Porthos and Athos both watch Aramis walk away with the three of them, Joe on one side of Aramis and the two adults on his other side. Only a few steps and the ball slips out of Joe’s grip, bounces on the concrete, and Aramis doesn’t miss a beat. He moves with lithe precision to kick it out in front of them, out of reach of Joe’s foot, but then Joe jostles for access. Aramis is quick, Porthos can see he’d have it easily if he didn’t pull back and let Joe get it, and then Joe is racing away down the alley, kicking his soccer ball in front of him.

Porthos can’t manage a smile while his chest clenches this way.

* * *

 

Soon Porthos is eagerly busy carrying things, meeting people, not halfway back from Rosemont before he’s got two loads stacked in his arms and still enough energy to give a reassuring wink – God, that wink – to a young, wide-eyed teen as they turn back toward Rosemont. Or he’s jutting his chin at a couple of the movers and they’re his, without a word crossing the alley to take the other side of a couch from a tenant who shouldn’t have to wear themselves out and it’s so much easier for the professionals to do it. Well, the professionals and Porthos, whose face glows with activity, whose body is made for movement.

Aramis and Athos from their separate spaces, at odd moments, catch Porthos’ body stretching, bending, and lifting. They watch his ease warm the people he helps. And when no one needs anything and he walks back alone from Rosemont, they watch Porthos’ face fall into fresh mourning.

Athos is the center of command. He lifts his arm and points. He looks everyone in the eye, listening without impatience or prompt. He is in and out of 680 Fourth half a dozen times an hour, his cheeks flushed with cold and with work. There is elegance in his lean frame, a kind of nobility in his effortless leadership.

It is simple to watch him without being caught, because here Athos is unselfconscious. He’s absorbed in each crisis, each concern as it comes to him. Porthos lets his gaze settle on the sincerity in Athos’ eyes, peeking through a thick fall of hair across his forehead. Aramis sneaks peeks the square frame of Athos’ shoulders while he walks, nothing like Porthos’ bounding energy, more like liquid marble, cool and smooth.

Aramis clearly cannot help it. He flirts with everyone. Connects without effort. Soon Aramis and the soccer ball are at the center of a gaggle of children in the empty lot behind the building. Aramis is coaching the impromptu game as he plays it, calling out in English and Spanish to the kids on his team, on the other team, are there even teams? His smile is broad and contagious, breath puffing as he runs, as he scoops up the smallest girl and carries her, running the length of the lot and kicking the ball at the same time, until they are well past the rest of the kids and he can put her down, “you’ve got it!” he tells her and she pushes the ball with feet and knees between the two cinder blocks they’ve designated the goal. She beams as Aramis lifts her again, this time in a spinning hug.

The parents and grandparents thank Aramis for babysitting as they walk by with boxes and bags, with tables and chairs. They pause and they watch as long as they can. Porthos loves Aramis with the children almost as much as he loves watching Aramis run, twist, and kick. He is fast, not always graceful but strong, and he takes Porthos’ breath away while he’s at it. For Athos it almost hurts to see these hidden sides of Aramis, sides he wouldn’t have known if not for this improbable day. It’s only an indication of how much more he will never know.

* * *

 

Aramis grins between them in the cab, a lost, breathless blur on their ride home, his mind still filled with stolen images of Athos and Porthos. So when he mutters “tonight’s my last night at the Blue Moon” as they climb out onto the sidewalk, he doesn’t realize the misstep for a moment. And then he bites his mouth closed with an audible click. _Don’t mention the end point, don’t invite discussion of what comes next. Stay in the present._ A rookie mistake.

Porthos lays a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Home tomorrow,” he commiserates.

Athos nods and pushes the hotel door open for them. And there their momentum fails. They stop just inside, stand facing each other in the room that’s trying to be Paris, by the unmanned reception desk.

“It’s been…” Athos can’t finish the sentence, doesn’t want to hazard an attempt to describe it. “In a year I wonder if I’ll even believe any of it happened.”

Porthos exhales. Aramis studies the buttons on Athos’ shirt.

Athos shakes his head, as if shaking the dream loose. “It could never have worked in real life.”

No matter that this is without doubt his real life, Aramis agrees. “Relationships are hard enough for someone like me, on the road, gone most of the time. But this? Could never work.”

There’s silence. Porthos’ brow is furrowed hard. “Can’t imagine bringing you both to an opening,” he says, low and gritty and half a laugh. “How would I explain you two?”

Athos is still as stone.

“Or not having you there at all.” Porthos sniffs, stands taller, folds his arms across his chest. “Hate long distance. Worse than nothing.”

Aramis shoves his fists into his pockets. “I mean, how many times have I promised to stay in touch with someone only to lose their number at the airport?”

Athos and Porthos both look away from that heart-imperiling face. Aramis doesn’t miss it. He wants to apologize, he wants to tell them _not with you, never with you,_ but he shouldn’t. Because how can he know? So he goes on.

“Or even if you mean to give it a shot, you get home and everything is wrong. They don’t fit. And life has to go on.” He sucks in air, bends his neck back, gazes vaguely above their heads. “It just does.”

Athos takes a slow, deep breath. “A clean break is the only way,” he tells the carpet. “Preserve the memory as a memory.”

That’s been Aramis’ practice from the beginning. And sure, this time the thought of leaving them makes his guts ache, but maybe that’s the way he always feels at times like this, and anyway it doesn’t mean he’s wrong. So Aramis nods. “Before anyone gets hurt.”

Porthos scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “’S the only way I can manage.”

The assent hangs in the silence long enough that it becomes a decision.

Aramis needs a shower before the show, Porthos needs to check in for his flight, and Athos should call in, make sure Brendan has everything well in hand.

And that’s it.

* * *

 

Before he heads out, Aramis assures them that they’re not going to see anything new and really shouldn’t bother coming to the Blue Moon tonight – it’s an early show anyway, Sunday night and all, and they both must be exhausted. But of course they go anyway, pick a table on the side closest to Aramis, in a pool of light, and savor every minute.

Porthos doesn’t notice Aramis has swiped the song from the rest of the band until Aramis has been playing, alone, for a good fifteen minutes. Porthos is only watching Aramis, after all. How could anyone look away? And now the decision’s been made, there’s a bittersweet flavor to everything Aramis does: close his eyes, lick his lips, shift on the bench, breathe. Athos here beside him is just as bittersweet, his still silence, how carefully he puts down his glass so it doesn’t make any noise, the heat of his gaze on Porthos’ cheek once or twice.

Athos imagines that it would get old, having to wrest a song back from Aramis when he steals it right out from under you like this. But the drummer doesn’t seem to mind, is still brushing periodically across the snare while the bass player only holds the neck of his bass upright as he sips a beer. The trumpet player has left the stage entirely; that would be Athos, he would just leave and let Aramis have what he wants.

Aramis has guided the previously up tempo tune down, massaged the energy out of it, let it go lax and easy so that what he’s playing now amounts to puffs of harmonic air, phrases made of cloud and light. He slides up the bench to the top of the keyboard where by all rights the sound should be plinky, childlike, but not in his hands. Under his fingers, these keys ring round and resonant like a dark soprano, each note complex, saturated.

His voice sneaks in below them, a bass line under a high, sonorous fog. At first it’s just tone, an intimate hum from inside closed lips, but soon the tune turns around again and there are words. “My romance,” he simmers, “doesn’t have to have a moon in the sky….” Scattered applause, but Porthos’ and Athos’ hands remain slack on their thighs. The words continue and Aramis’ voice is mahogany. His earlier Spanish words echo in Athos’ mind, contained somehow in Aramis’ tone. “…doesn’t need a castle rising in Spain,” Aramis sings, the melody rising with the words, intensifying like noon sun.

It’s not just a song, Porthos senses. It means something. It means everything: even if tomorrow they never see each other again, this song is about them. “Wide awake,” Aramis continues, “I can make my most fantastic dreams come true…” Porthos lays his hand on the table for Athos, fuck it, this is important, this may well be Aramis’ heart on his sleeve, and Athos takes it, squeezing Porthos’ fingers. “My romance… doesn’t need a thing… but…” The melody stops, waits for the harmonic fog above him to dissipate, and then it’s just his voice, just one word: “you.”

* * *

 

Aramis’ room tonight -- because it’s closer by an entire floor, because the supplies are there, and because Aramis hauls Athos and Porthos inside his door with a desperate strength, throwing them at his bed.

Aramis had his hands on them as soon as he could after the gig, after goodbyes with the players and a promise to Chuck, after the bartender handed him a check and his number (too late). Already outside the club, in the cab, no words but _hands_ , hot through fabric.

Upstairs shoes go first, then jackets, Aramis’ hat, Porthos’ belt.

This is it. Their last night together. Aramis has six hours until he needs to leave for the airport. Leave _them_.

Aramis mouths over Athos’ jaw, presses his tongue deep into the hollow, while one hand clutches Porthos’ collar, holding him close as Porthos bites over Aramis’ shoulder. Porthos rolls his body against Aramis, rolls his cock against Aramis’ hip. Athos doesn’t need his shirt, doesn’t need any of these clothes, Aramis captures Athos’ mouth and lets Athos’ trousers fall to the ground and Aramis’ fingers follow, tight as talons, down over his ass, scratching over his thigh, kissing him deeper, sliding his tongue over Athos’.

But after today, tonight, after Aramis exposing his heart like that Porthos can’t just watch, he wants _in_. He palms the back of Aramis’ head, turns it to him and seizes Aramis’ mouth. That voice comes in a needy whine, Aramis’ mouth wet and desperate and Porthos wants to fuck him in every way, _now_ , wants to fill every hole.

Aramis goes to work on Porthos’ clothes, needs all three of them bare, needs skin hot against his own. Athos is behind Aramis, unfastening Aramis’ jeans, twisting the button fly over his cock, Athos’ hands warm, firm, efficient as they push the waistband down with the slick cotton blend underneath them, and Porthos has the hem of Aramis’ t-shirt so that between the two of them Aramis is stripped all at once, all fevered skin and breathless anticipation.

Athos strips himself down to nothing and Aramis takes care of Porthos’ clothes until they stand, Aramis sandwiched between them, all three of them hard and groping. Athos reaches for a condom, slides latex, no lube, not yet, down his length so he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to worry and he doesn’t want to, wants to be as carefree as Aramis and Porthos are. And then back to Aramis, sliding his hands over the smooth skin of Aramis’ hips and his cock along Aramis’ crack, then lower, between his legs, pushing behind Aramis’ balls and a toothy kiss to the thick muscle of Aramis’ neck.

Aramis leans back into Athos, giving himself backwards as he gives himself forward into Porthos’ claiming grip. Porthos holds Aramis’ face in his hands, kissing him like he’s drinking from a goblet, deep and sucking. Aramis lets his body be pulled up and into Porthos even as Athos anchors him. It strains him, opens him to be stretched between them and that’s when he knows what he really wants tonight.

Athos holds Aramis’ cock in his palm, fingers wrapped lightly, measuring its weight, memorizing it. His other palm is spread wide and low across Aramis’ belly, across smooth skin and a track of wiry curls. Aramis cups Porthos’ ass, bowing Porthos into him while Porthos sucks kisses down Aramis’ neck, leaving Aramis’ mouth dangerously unoccupied.

“I want you both,” Aramis rasps.

“You’ve got us,” Porthos mutters against Aramis’ collarbone.

“Now,” Aramis breathes. “Both of you.”

Athos stills, tightens his fist around Aramis’ cock. “How?”

Aramis twists then, _how indeed?_ , casting around for a solution. Floor? Chair? “Bed,” he breathes, twisting the rest of the way around so he faces Athos, slides his palm over Athos’ stubble, swipes his mouth over Athos’ lips, open and vague.

It’s Porthos who guides them to the edge of the bed and climbs on, pulling them until they are all knees and arms, all hands on each other, pulling and kissing, faces all close enough that they pass kisses one to the next, Athos licking into a kiss shared by Porthos and Aramis, teasing Porthos’ lips away from Aramis only for Aramis to steal Athos’ mouth. It is playful at best, not satisfying but it calms something in them, some restless need to be three, not to be paired but to be joined.

Athos is turned in Porthos’ hands until he lies panting between Porthos and Aramis, between mouths that tease over a nipple, that flutter over hips, that press bruising fingers into the hollow of Athos’ hip. Four hot hands determined to blur the distinction between pleasure and pain, and mouths, Aramis’ wet and generous, Porthos’ demanding, sucking at anything it finds.

Soon, seamlessly, it is Porthos who is being adored, whose lines are being laved by trembling tongues, whose ass is being lovingly traced, whose neck is being twisted toward a mouth that needs his. Someone is pulling a loose fist over his cock, then another and another, hand after hand after hand until he has to warn them, “wait, stop,” he’ll spill if they don’t stop. His eyelids open to the touch of slick latex to the tender tip and then sure fingers unrolling it down over him, fingers that become a fist, long, strong fingers, Aramis’ fingers unrolling the condom all the way down.

Aramis meets Porthos’ eyes, a congested look, and presses the container of lube into Porthos’ palm. Aramis nods; Porthos grins a little at him, _so serious_ , and welcomes a kiss, Aramis’ tongue flicking just inside his top lip. Then Aramis is turning around, pushing Athos up to the head of the bed. Making room for himself between them until he’s on all fours.

“Oh, I see,” Porthos sighs, sliding his hand up the back of Aramis’ leg, up over his ass, up his back.

Athos and Porthos share an open look over Aramis, who has buried his face in Athos’ lap and is licking and kissing along his inner thigh now. Athos’ breath is shallow, his eyes blown a bit wide as he directs a thick gaze at Aramis and then glances, longingly, back at Porthos. Porthos licks his lip, wants to kiss Athos’ open mouth, wants to suck that astonished gape right off his face.

Porthos warms a squirt of lube between his fingers before he slides three up from behind Aramis’ balls in a generous ribbon over his hole and then bends them, turns them to massage it with slick knuckles. He rolls his wrist, winding loose circles, grazing Aramis’ hole, pushing against it. Aramis groans into Athos’ lap and curls his back for more. Now Porthos’ middle finger, just the tip, and Aramis exhales a slow sigh, freezing there until Porthos pushes inside farther. Aramis hisses while Athos unabashedly watches the spectacle, glancing away only when he feels Aramis’ pointed tongue drag up his cock and then his lips, capturing the head. His mouth is hot even through the latex, hot enough and needy enough that Athos’ eyes nearly roll back in his head.

Porthos drags fingers along the rim of Aramis’ hole, stretching it gently, pausing when Aramis’ whimpers start to turn sharp, waiting and then beginning again. Aramis’ attention is everywhere and nowhere, at Athos’ cock hard between his lips, at Porthos’ fingers, now three of them, _Jesus,_ pushing, curving, swirling inside him. He can’t direct them, can barely breathe as drool leaks at the corners of his mouth. He has to hold himself up on his arms, has to brace backward against Porthos’ exploring fingers and so can’t take any control with either of them. He is at their mercy and _that_ has him moaning and pushing back _hard_ onto Porthos’ fingers.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” Porthos murmurs. Aramis is empty for a disappointing, strange second and then Porthos’ cock -- Aramis can picture it, long and swollen – is there, nudging inside until, with a breathy grunt, Porthos pushes harder. Aramis pulls his head back so he can breathe, so he can accept the sensation of being beautifully split apart.

Athos brushes a hand through Aramis’ hair. “God, Aramis,” he whispers.

Porthos has Aramis’ hips in his hands so he shouldn’t fall forward much when he thrusts, Aramis is strong but then Porthos snaps his hips and pitches Aramis forward enough that it forces Athos’ cock deep against the back of Aramis’ throat.

“Too much?” Athos asks Aramis.

No. Aramis _wants_ this. If he can’t give himself to them forever, he can at least give himself completely right now. And if this doesn’t feel strictly wonderful every second, it’s a punishment he will gladly accept. So he shakes his head as much as he can manage.

“You tell us if you want to stop,” Porthos says, his voice thick, hips aching to fuck.

Aramis nods as best he can around Athos’ cock, then strains back, taking Porthos deeper.

It can’t be helped; Porthos’ every thrust pushes Athos’ cock deep into Aramis’ mouth. Aramis doesn’t resist. Even Athos can do nothing but let it unfold, let Porthos fuck Aramis’ mouth onto his cock. He can feel Aramis gag, can see his eyelashes glistening with tears but otherwise Aramis’ face is serene, smooth in pleasure. It’s stunning, a picture he will treasure as long as his mind allows it.

Athos glances up to see Porthos, mouth gaping, taking in the sight of Aramis below him, stretched around him, open everywhere. Porthos’ brow is furrowed as if this hurts him, his jaw tightening with every thrust, and maybe it does to see Aramis so completely pliant between them.

Aramis’ mouth is honestly _so good_. It’s a miracle Athos hasn’t already come.

Aramis is gorgeous, spread wide around Porthos like this, and when his back curves low, just _taking_ him, Porthos can barely hold on for all of his beauty. Aramis’ hair fans out over his shoulders, his neck bent back. Porthos can’t see his face, can only hear throaty grunts and, when Porthos makes him wait, a hum that threatens to become a whine. The muscles in Aramis’ arms stand out tight, in his legs too – Porthos skates his palms down over Aramis’ thighs and back, up his inner thighs to where his cock hangs heavy, half hard.

After, Porthos will take good care of Aramis. He and Athos will make Aramis’ body sing.

But now, with Aramis pressed between them, all Porthos can manage is a quick glance at Athos, whose chest is beginning to stretch, his back to arch and his face, _God,_ _stricken,_ he’s about to come and Porthos understands, he’s nearly there, a few more thrusts, almost beyond his control and Athos is jerking against Aramis’ face, it’s stunning. Aramis and Porthos did that together and maybe that’s what sends Porthos over the edge, collapsing over Aramis as he comes.

Aramis rolls out from under Porthos, over onto his back, breathing hard, body limp. Athos brushes Aramis’ hair from his forehead and kisses it before climbing off the bed to throw away his condom. Porthos feathers soft fingers down the length of Aramis’ leg, then he’s gone to clean himself up, too.

Aramis has been with men, with women, enjoyed the odd ménage a trois. Always playful, dedicated to pleasure and a certain stylish demonstration of skill. But _this_. Aramis can’t deny that this was different. _Is_ different, and isn’t over: Porthos is back, his long body stretching warm beside Aramis, one arm threaded carefully under Aramis’ neck, the other wrapping around Aramis’ chest as Aramis lets his head fall to the side, lets himself be kissed.

Now Athos is back too, kissing his temple, nibbling his earlobe, whispering “that was beautiful” and only then sliding his body against Aramis’ side. Aramis eyelids flutter closed. He rolls his head back to face the ceiling, held fast between these two men. Their hands press against his skin, Porthos’ all long fingers and squeezing, Athos’ cool and gentle. Aramis licks his swollen lips when Porthos encircles the base of his cock and, at the same time, Athos takes his balls in a warm palm. Aramis lets go a sigh.

“On your side,” Athos breathes against Aramis’ ear and lifts Aramis’ hip. Aramis can feel Athos turning behind him, feels a hand on his back. An upside down hand. He opens his eyes to see Porthos grinning at him and twists to find Athos removing a square of latex from its package.

“Careful,” Aramis whimpers.

Athos presses a kiss to the small of Aramis’ back, knees behind Aramis’ head and lowering himself back down to the bed until he’s head to toe, belly to back with Aramis. “I promise,” Athos tells him, mouthing another kiss to the meat of Aramis’ ass before laying it the dental dam gently over Aramis’ raw, already slick hole with two careful fingers.

Aramis exhales a throaty breath. Athos wraps his other arm around Aramis’ upper hip, holding his leg up just a bit, keeping him just where he wants him. Athos licks a wide circle, then smaller, tracing Aramis, nudging his tongue at where he will soon push inside. But now Athos’ head is swirling with this, and Aramis is so lovely, the way his mouth opens when Athos puts even the slightest pressure _right there_ , the way Aramis moves under Athos’ mouth… they are going to take such excellent care of him.

Porthos scoots lower, kissing down Aramis’ sternum, down the center of him, between Aramis’ legs until his cock is within easy, delectable reach of Porthos’ mouth. He snuggles down, rests Aramis’ upper leg on his shoulder so Athos can release it and use his free hand to skate back over Aramis’ side, over his tense belly. And then Porthos licks at the tip of Aramis’ cock, licks it closer, teases it harder.

Aramis folds his lower arm under his head. He lets his upper arm fall behind him to Athos’ side, brushes his fingers over his ribs once. But Porthos is intent now, sucking long pulls, tongue cupping along his length, hot and hungry. And Athos has moved on from the sweet drag on his rim to plunging tentatively inside.

Aramis gives himself over completely. Again. He has no leverage, can only perceive his orgasm in the distance, out of his control. Aramis’ moan is incoherent, a thick “ah” that doesn’t stop, just changes shade as the pleasure shifts between Porthos’ mouth tight around his cock and Athos’ tongue inside him. And then, even more, they are soon in rhythm, Porthos and Athos deepening together, pulling away together, into him and away, closing in and almost releasing but never quite, again and again – _Jesus –_ relentlessly until he convulses between them.

* * *

 

When does the dreaded day they’re leaving begin? Has it technically already started at three in the morning when they sleep together in Aramis’ big bed, Athos’ chest supporting Porthos’ and Aramis’ clasped hands? Or is that still today, still the day Aramis hates to relinquish as he clings to consciousness, opening his eyes in the dark to watch these two miracles sleep beside him?

Does it begin when Athos’ phone makes an ungodly loud noise at _fucking five thirty_ and he gets up, apologizing, to get ready? Or when, soon after, Porthos grumbles that he can’t sleep after that and leaves without even a peck?

Or is it when Aramis leaves behind the bed they shared and showers off the memories of their hands?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breathtaken, cherryfeather, and mellyflori have written beautiful scenes involving sex with Porthos, Aramis, and at least one other somebody. If something I've written above looks like something you've seen from one or more of them, I can only apologize and point you back toward their astonishing works of art. I assure you that I tried to give their configurations a wide berth while holding tightly to my own vision. But there are only so many ways these things can go. (I know, I made a graph. And diagrams. It was like an ornate logic puzzle, only with sex.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis lifts both of their hands to his lips. He presses a strong, almost angry kiss against their knuckles. “Lucky we’re not sentimental or this would be torture.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With gratitude for your patience and support -- yes, yours.

There is a woman in the breakfast room.

When Aramis comes in, mind blurry and stuttering with the impending onset of real life, there is a blond, severe-faced woman standing beside Athos.

“No one else,” she is saying, and there’s Porthos seated beside Athos, mouth half open in surprise. “I can’t afford a staff on an educator’s salary and the little this place makes.”

Porthos nods and his gaze catches on Aramis, frozen in the doorway. His eyes go wide, an unspoken comment.

“But you three did all right without me. Found your way to the kitchen, at least.” She winks at Athos; Aramis watched her eyelashes from the side.

Athos looks down at the table.

“No, I’m glad you made yourselves at home,” she assures him. “Privacy is so important. Is it a rationalization to call it a gift I give my guests?”

This is the turning point, Aramis can sense it. He feels heavy now, like gravity just took itself more seriously. He shifts his back at his feet.

There’s a noise, creaking floorboard, and the woman turns to see him there. “You must be Mr. Herblay.”

“Aramis,” Porthos corrects her.

“This is Ninon de Larroque,” Athos explains. “Our invisible host.”

Aramis lifts his fedora off his head an inch in greeting but that’s it, he can’t bring himself to talk to her. She’s intruding. These are his last moments with – _no_. That way lies absolutely nothing but grief.

Still, this was _their_ place.

“Nice to finally meet you,” she says, extending a hand.

Aramis, key still in hand, drops it in her palm rather than shake it. “Have to say, I’m disappointed.”

Athos’ eyes flare at him. Ms. de Larroque’s face closes.

“I had hoped the place was haunted,” Aramis shrugs. “Kept in full running order by a friendly deceased housekeeper.”

Just as quickly open again, she twirls Aramis’ keys around her index finger. “The imagination of a novelist.”

“Jazz musician, actually,” Athos corrects.

Ms. de Larroque flashes a bemused look as she turns to face Athos again. “And see? You got to know each other a bit.”

Athos offers his hand to Ms. de Larroque. “A pleasure.”

She shakes it, then heads into the foyer. “I hope we’ll see you again,” she says, turning in the doorway. “All three of you.”

“We. See?” Aramis mutters, detective-like. “Haunted. Knew it.”

Aramis pours himself a cup of coffee and joins Porthos and Athos at their table. They haven’t touched their food, neither of them, and their coffee mugs are mostly full. They don’t speak, only listen to the unfamiliar sound of typing from the reception desk. Aramis hates it.

“When’s your fl --” Porthos begins and stops. It is the closest any of them has come to asking real questions about their real lives. Without ever discussing it, he knows not to ask. “When do you need to be at the airport?”

“Seven thirty, eight,” Aramis tells him, cradling his mug, warming his fingers. “Need to call a cab.”

“My car will be here at seven fifteen.”

“Five minutes?” Porthos asks with a tang of panic.

Athos reaches his hand halfway across the table to calm Porthos but stops, glancing as far back as his own shoulder, back in the direction of Ms. de Larroque, computer keyboard still clattering in the next room. “Would you accept a ride?” Athos asks then, hand lamely limp between them.

Porthos takes a hissing breath, fast and deep. He nods, exhales a little, laughs a little. “Yeah.”

“You too, Aramis?”

Aramis can feel the blade sliding deeper. Poking at vital organs. But he nods his head. “Thanks.”

* * *

 

It’s the same driver that dropped him off, Athos realizes. Same wide expanse of jaw, small mouth. The man puts their luggage in the trunk and opens the back door. It’s the same car the man was driving a week ago as well, not as large as a limousine but there’s a couch seat in the back. “One of you is welcome to ride up front if you’d like more room,” the driver says, his southern accent only audible around the edges.

Aramis shoots a tense glance at Athos.

“Plenty of room back here,” Porthos assures them, climbing in first.

Athos feels more than sees Aramis’ shoulders relax, gives him an nod to go first and then climbs in after him.

Inside, Porthos takes Aramis’ hand in his, lifts it onto his thigh and squeezes hard enough Athos can see it, hard enough for Aramis to suck in a breath, maybe hard enough that Aramis will feel it when he plays tomorrow.

Aramis in turn reaches for Athos’ cold hand, clenched into a tight fist on the chilled leather seat. “Hey,” Aramis says, turning Athos’ fist over, sliding his fingers inside it from Athos’ wrist. He slips them between Athos’ fingers and Athos can breathe again. For now.

Aramis lifts both of their hands to his lips. He presses a strong, almost angry kiss against their knuckles. “Lucky we’re not sentimental or this would be torture.”

Porthos whiffles a laugh. “Yeah.”

Athos wants to smile but he’s forgotten how.

The car ride is much shorter than Athos remembers.

* * *

 

They stand lamely by the curb while the driver unloads the trunk. “Travel safe,” the guy says blithely, almost cruelly enthusiastic and there’s nothing for it but to head in through the closest door. Join the security line. Fish phones and wallets out of pockets.

Athos’ phone rings. “D’Artagnan,” he says by way of greeting, then immediately falls silent. A few moments and he makes eye contact with Aramis, then Porthos. A kind of apology.

“I did,” Athos says.

The line moves ahead of them. Porthos reaches to pull Athos’ bag along but Athos takes it himself, frozen in line.

“Tell her she can eviscerate me in person when I get back this afternoon.”

He’s not moving. Someone behind them in line says something about being glad the TSA agents aren’t on _their_ phones. Aramis glares at the guy.

Athos looks at Porthos and Aramis again, eyes now wide and sad. He moves to wheel his bag behind them, to dart upstream to the closest stanchion.

“We can wait with you,” Porthos whispers to him.

Athos shakes his head. “Just. Hold on a sec,” he tells d’Artagnan, then breasts his phone. “I need to take care of this,” he tells them. “You go.”

Porthos is pale, still as marble. Aramis shifts his weight from foot to foot and back.

Athos turns to face them both. “Maybe this is better,” Athos says. He brushes Porthos’ cheek.

The line in front of them has cleared almost all the way to the check point. “Next?” comes the impatient call from the uniformed agent at the podium.

“Fuck,” Porthos breathes.

But Athos insists, stronger this time, “Go.” He touches Aramis’ arm – Aramis wishes it would burn a mark into his skin -- and ducks under the stanchion, out of the line.

Aramis pulls Porthos’ bag behind him and Porthos follows, both grim.

The meaty woman at the checkpoint desk takes Aramis’ ID and watches Aramis hold his phone over the code reader. “’Kay,” she tells him when it obviously turns from red to green. He wheels his bag to the x-ray and sneaks a look behind him at Athos, still on the phone, back turned.

Face hidden. Maybe it’s better.

* * *

 

In a few moments, Porthos joins Aramis in line for the x-ray scanner. For anyone else, Aramis looks like himself: confident, breezily attractive. But Porthos can see it around his eyes, in the way he holds his mouth. He hurts.

“Shoes, belts, jackets on the conveyor, keys and phones in a bin. Computers have to go in their own bin. Push everything through before stepping into the scanner. Shoes, belts, jackets….” The agent’s voice drones the instructions on continuous loop as he paces.

Porthos watches Aramis unbuckle his belt, eyes intent on Aramis’ efficient fingers, then glances up to see Aramis smirking, a little darkly, watching Porthos watch him.

Fuck everything about this.

Even walking into the x-ray scanner, Aramis struts. A beep and then the agent waves him through. “See you on the other side,” Aramis calls and snatches another peek in Athos’ direction. His face falls a little; Porthos follows his gaze. Athos is still talking.

Porthos takes off his shoes and his jacket. No computer, but he digs his keys out of his pocket and deposits his phone there with them in the bin. When the agent waves him in, Porthos steps inside the scanner. He does what the sign says, holds his hands over his head, waits for the beep, all under the agent’s hawkish supervision.

But the agent doesn’t wave him through. Instead, he leans over the conveyor, whispers to the agent checking the bag x-rays. Shakes his head. Saunters back. “Again,” he tells Porthos.

Arms up. Beep.

Porthos glances at Aramis, waiting.

The agent is pasty-skinned, still boyishly angular. Invested with petty power. “I need you to wait over here,” he tells Porthos, gruff, pointing to an area defined by more stanchions, against the wall.

Aramis calls to him from the entrance to the terminal. “What’s going on?”

Porthos does what the kid – _agent_ – says. He’s racking his brain. What could they have found? Something from his grandmother? A pen that looks like… something else? He can’t think of a thing in his luggage that would prompt them to stop him. There’s no metal anywhere.

The bag agent carries Porthos’ stuff to a table. "This yours?" she asks. She’s tired, older than the kid by at least a decade but their mouths are set in the same lipless line.

Aramis stands just outside the pen. Reaches out to touch him just as the agent strides over. “You traveling together?” he demands of Porthos.

Porthos can feel the pinch around his eyes. The question is meant to be threatening, but what it really is is too right, too close. He shakes his head. “No.”

“On your way then, sir.”

Aramis stands taller. “I’ll stay, thanks.”

“He’s gonna be a while. Unless you want us to take a closer look at your bag --”

The other agent chimes in, Porthos’ bag open in front of her. “You can’t wait here, sir.”

Aramis opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but Porthos stops him. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

The agent lifts an eyebrow. He’s pushing buttons on a plastic rod thing. Metal detector?

“You’ll miss your flight,” Porthos tells Aramis. “Go.”

Aramis looks searchingly at Porthos, down the terminal, back at Porthos. He wants to say something, his lips are tight over his teeth, working like he’s not sure whether he’s going to open it or not. Like he’s considering what to do, if it’s worth it to fight this uniformed shit on Porthos’ behalf.

He needs Aramis to know that it’s not. This isn’t Porthos’ first time getting singled out arbitrarily by an officer. No: it’s not arbitrary. Been frisked on the L more than once, pulled over half a dozen times when he had a car, even dragged in on suspicion and thrown in a line up. African-American male, six feet something, might as well wear a target on his back. His grandmother taught him how to act, how to curl his shoulders so he doesn’t seem as imposing. It’s a lesson he uses more often than he should have to.

But it’s his first time stopped in an airport. He knows the TSA don’t have guns or real power. The most they can do is inconvenience him. Of course, if he misses his flight the airline might not put him on another one for the same ticket. Probably won’t. Another ticket would take a big bite out of next month’s rent. He could stop by Bud’s, see if they still want that new floor put in the bathroom…

Porthos forces a wan smile. “Please.”

“Not.” Aramis meets Porthos’ eyes. “Not like this.”

Porthos glances at the agent nudging his legs apart with that gray plastic rod. He swallows hard. He doesn’t want Aramis to get caught up in this agent’s power trip, doesn’t want him to get stuck. Doesn’t want Aramis’ last memory of this week being the windowless, industrial gray walls of the TSA office. “See you later,” Porthos lies, a little too loud. Final.

Aramis shakes his head once. His brow furrows and then he lurches closer, but the agent holds his hand in his way. “Sir,” he warns Aramis.

All of this hurts, but seeing Aramis helpless is right up there with the worst of it. “See you later,” Aramis echoes, hollow clear through, and goes.

* * *

 

It’s too early for it but Aramis needs to shut down and you can’t buy valium at the newspaper shop so he takes a stool in the bar a few gates down from his. He faces out so he can see Athos and Porthos when they come by – if they come by – and orders a whiskey, whatever they’ve got.

He’s going to have a headache the size of Texas when he gets home, but that may not be the worst thing. His head will pound hard enough to block the rest of what he’ll be feeling, is already feeling like a sick ache. They are gone, both of them. Feels like they were ripped from his hands, first one and then the other and he just lamely let it happen as if they meant nothing.

This is why they shouldn’t be with him. Because he’s pure shit when you get right down to it.

No, even if it happened the wrong way, it turned out right in the end. He’s a fucking expert on short term fucks. Hard-won knowledge, and at that he chuckles into his glass.

You can’t leave these things open. It’s like a bandaid: just rip it off all in one go. Pain’s over faster this way.

But then he sees Athos’ face in his mind’s eye, _Jesus_ , he can feel his cock against the roof of his mouth. He traces over it with the tip of his tongue. And powerful Porthos, smaller with those agents harassing him, telling him to go when it was so clear Porthos wanted him to stay, and _he_ wanted to stay, give Porthos a damn kiss goodbye at least. _Something_. Porthos who didn’t mean it yesterday, how could he have meant it when he asked for a clean break?

Aramis is a mess. Three hours of sleep isn’t even really sleep, it’s torture. It’s just enough ruin you, to really drill home what it is you’re missing.

And hopelessly watching for them isn’t helping his state of mind. He gets out his phone and starts answering emails – the first six from Marguerite.

Before he knows it (before Athos or Porthos has come for him), his flight is being called. He leaves a ten, finishes his drink, heads to his gate. They’re calling the club members now, “Flyer’s Elite and Silver Elite members,” and then it’s group one, people with window seats toward the back, that’s Aramis. The flight to Chicago is about two and a half hours, enough to sleep a little.

This part of being on the road is always the same, at least. The long line down the jetway, everyone in such a hurry to get on board and then just sit there, worry and impatience hovering in the air around them like farts. He could do this with his eyes closed. Would prefer to do it that way, really.

Step into the airplane, nod of greeting from the first class flight attendant, follow the slow line of passengers.

The face in the second row on Aramis’ right, window seat, stops him short. His heart thunks hard. “Athos.” His name whooshes out of Aramis in a rush of surprise and relief and longing.

Athos looks up. “Aramis.”

But the stupid fucking line is moving behind him and the guy at Aramis’ back is past patience, “come on, move it” the guy growls and Athos is already looking back down at his tablet. And when Aramis thinks about it, playing it back, he’s sure that the way Athos said his name was more of a period than a question mark.

Aramis lets himself be pushed into the main cabin.

Bag above, window shade all the way down, fastened seat belt visible so he isn’t jostled awake by a well-meaning flight attendant.

The end. Bare recognition. Nothing more.

Aramis pulls his hat low over his eyes and lets oblivion take him.

* * *

 

The landing gear hits the ground. Aramis doesn’t ache for the first ten seconds he’s awake. He doesn’t remember.

Then it rushes back and hurts like hell.

* * *

 

How does something so massive, so unwieldy, fly? It seems impossible when the great steel thing lands, clumsy and enormous. The soaring, in retrospect, can’t have been real.

Aramis was right, Porthos was right. _He_ was right: a clean break is crucial. And Athos has long years of practice exercising self-control. He only has to dig that heavy, cold armor back up and drape it over himself again. In no time, it will come to feel like the only possible reality.

* * *

 

Porthos only realized Athos was on the flight after he’d already run past him in the aisle with seconds to go before they closed the doors. Athos didn’t make eye contact and anyway Porthos was in the middle of thanking the flight attendant, a slight woman with a severe bun but a kind, understanding face.

“Got stuck in security,” he mumbled, hoisting his jacket over his shoulder.

She squeezed his arm for a sliver of a second. “You’re here now.”

Porthos rushed to his seat in the last row and stared at nothing for two hours and thirty-seven minutes rather than kneel in the aisle and argue with Athos about a thing they both agreed to, a thing that he might eventually be able to convince himself was the right way to go.

He didn’t notice until they were all standing to leave that Aramis had been there too, a dozen rows ahead of him.

Their last hours together and Porthos didn’t even know.

Now that Porthos is off the plane and out in the terminal Athos and Aramis are long gone. No one checks bags anymore so he walks as fast as he can, nearly tripping over himself, veering between travelers like a driver in a car chase to the exit doors. He gets there just in time to watch Aramis disappear into a cab. No sign of Athos.

It’s for the best.

It is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, you want to punch them all. I do too. But please note the number of chapters total v. how many are left, and be soothed.
> 
> As many of you know, I'm a musician myself. When I'm performing a lot, my mind can't settle down in the right way to write. It's shitty but I've had no luck fixing it. I just finished a month-long round of performances (hence the sparse updates) but now I'm back and, more importantly, my MIND is back. 
> 
> One more chapter to go on this puppy, then another porny episode suggested by latbfan in the same universe. Maybe more after that. We'll see. In the meantime, I am beyond grateful for you all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I should have found you. I wanted to.”

It’s a three-block walk to the L to get anywhere, even on a frigid March day like this when the Windy City is earning its nickname. Aramis stuffs his chin under his scarf, digging his fists deeper into his pockets. _Colder than a witch’s left tit_ Izzy used to say when they’d sneak away during gym to smoke and make out. _Dick-shrinking cold. Ball-swallowing cold._ The wind is antarctic: it blows the chilled fabric of his jeans against his shins until all he can think of is those penguins in that documentary, huddled together to stay alive, their little penguin babies scooped onto their feet, surrounded by feathery crotch warmth.

No one out on the street has a mouth, just glassy eyes and runny noses, everything else wrapped up against the ice. Aramis keeps himself entertained by describing the cold, a kind of gallows humor. _Cold as a Yeti brunch. Cold enough to make a tauntaun sleeping bag. Colder than pretty much anything in St. Petersburg. Cold as my bed._

That last one sneaks in without permission and then he’s right in it, missing them so hard it causes physical pain. Missing them is what he imagines losing a limb would feel like: empty and strange, cruel flashes of the thing being there. Remembering over and over again, relentlessly, what’s been lost.

Aramis hates this part. Has it always taken this long to recover?

Has it _ever_ taken this long?

He climbs up the steps to the train platform and it gets impossibly colder. _Kelvin cold._ There’s that stupid spark of hope; he looks around. Now he always looks around, just in case. Never used to, not like this.

It takes all his willpower not to search for them. It would be easy. But what good would it do? No one’s looked for him, either.

* * *

 

It’s not a matter of fear: Athos knows exactly why Porthos has suddenly sought him out after two months, why he wants to meet for lunch in the middle of the week in a public place, and not just any public place but a restaurant near Athos’ work.

As soon as d’Artagnan gives him the message ( _friend of yours – Porthos du Vallon -- requested lunch, you didn’t have anything Thursday and I thought you could use something light and fun so Sam’s at 12:30_ ), Athos is on the phone with his own doctor, making an appointment for Porthos. It’s a place for Porthos to start, anyway. Athos instructs the billing secretary to send him this bill and any subsequent ones Porthos’ accrues.

Athos brings his checkbook to the restaurant.

He knew this would happen. Porthos -- and Aramis for that matter, he’ll hear from him soon, no doubt – may have been all fearless bravado back in Charleston, but now they’re facing a life sentence and the blame will fall squarely on Athos’ shoulders. Where it belongs, frankly. He should have turned them down. He knew better. It was selfish of him. He should have gotten a room at the Hyatt instead of letting Aramis lead him upstairs.

Athos returns to their faces in his mind, the pathways to each moment with them so well-worn they may as well be paved. He has maybe four productive hours each day since they parted. He doesn’t sleep, just lies in his bed with his cock in his fist and tells himself it will get better. It only gets worse.

And now this. Everything – every _one_ \-- he touches, he ruins.

Porthos is already seated, white tablecloth and all the chairs in the place draped with thick winter coats, sleeves stuffed with scarves and hats, gloves laid out beside napkins. Athos breathes himself into a semblance of calm before Porthos catches his eye and stands, an awkward gesture of chivalry or obligation.

Porthos has deep bags, like bruises, under his eyes.

Even holding out his hand to shake feels… like not enough. But Porthos takes it, holds it, doesn’t shake it. Just holds it there, palm against palm. They both look at their hands clasped together for a second before they unlock, breathe, sit.

“Visiting Chicago?” Athos asks, smoothing the tablecloth, avoiding Porthos’ burning eyes.

“Live here, actually.”

Athos’ gaze flies to Porthos. “You do?”

“South side.”

He could have known, wanted to know, but he respected Porthos’ and Aramis’ privacy. Respect, that’s what it was. “That’s. A coincidence.”

“You could call it that.” Porthos’ voice is frosted over with blame.

Anyway, Athos would much rather cut to the chase. “What have you been up to?” he asks. He forces every word. Words aren’t enough, they aren’t _them_.

There is no them.

“Life. Work. Research, actually.”

Testing and the frantic, worried aftermath. He remembers. The envelope in Athos’ inside pocket presses against his chest, the checkbook nestled against it.

“Fucking science, man. Not my best subject.”

Athos can’t look at him.

“Did you know there’s a pill you can take that makes you almost totally immune to HIV? If you don’t already have it.”

Truvada, a combination therapy, yes. It’s been a moot point for celibate Athos (with one glaring recent exception). And now he braces himself for the eruption, or implosion, and he doesn’t know which would be worse. _Too late for me, felt feverish, got tested, you’ve wrecked my life._

“I started taking them.”

Athos opens his mouth but his mind is blizzard white.

“The test was the worst part, just facing the possibility. Thought about you the whole time, what it was like for you. And I told myself I didn’t have to worry, but. Yeah. I was terrified. Even after all our supplies.”

Athos is still seconds behind. _He’s on truvada._ “Wait. You’re not sick?”

Porthos’ face is brighter now, Athos thinks. His eyes blaze at Athos. “Not sick.”

“You’re okay?” A deep breath is totally out of the question.

“Technically. But.” Porthos leans forward, both hands on the table in front of him. “I’ve never felt worse.”

And that is, of course, when the waiter appears to take their order. Neither has looked at the menu; Athos jolts his lungs with a cough, then orders soup, whatever they have today and doesn’t take his eyes from Porthos’ face, half smiling and half positively stricken. And a sandwich, turkey, something with protein. Porthos says “same” before the waiter can ask and then it’s just the two of them again.

Athos lets out a breath in a burst. “You’ve never felt worse.”

Porthos looks to the right, the left, his hands on the table. “What happened in Charleston has me so fucked up.”

It does? Did they force him? This is – it didn’t occur to Athos. And Porthos never appeared anything but enthusiastic. But he started taking the pills, why would he…?

“You and Aramis were.” Porthos stops, swallows, scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “The best. Thing. That ever happened to me.”

Oh. _Oh._

“Look, I get that we didn’t exchange numbers for a reason and, believe me, I recognize the silent agreement that we wouldn’t go searching. And I tried not to, I did, but I watched Aramis get into a cab at O’Hare --”

“Aramis lives here in Chicago?” Athos blurts, loud enough that people’s heads turn.

Porthos lips twist into a sad grin. “Yeah.”

Athos nods, leans back in his chair and looks out the front window as if he might see Aramis walking by on the sidewalk.

He might, is the thing. He actually might.

Porthos leans forward, his voice a raspy hush. “We agreed to end it mostly to avoid the shit of long distance. But there’s no distance and I fucking miss you.”

Athos nods again, presses his lips together, meets Porthos’ burning eyes.

“And I don’t care what the other reasons were,” Porthos presses. “I don’t care that being three makes things weird in real life. I’m going to fight, even if I have to do it for all of us.”

Now Athos is shaking his head slowly, dazed. “I thought. I made an appointment for you, I was going to cover your treatment…”

“What --?”

“I thought that’s why you wanted to meet me, because you were sick and I was responsible. I was sure you hated me.”

Porthos sighs. “I couldn’t hate you.”

“Believe me, you could.”

“Pretty sure I’m in love with you, to be honest.”

Athos stops talking.

“You? And Aramis? The way I feel about you two?” Porthos’ face blares a fierce, breathtaking intensity. “I’ve never felt about anyone. And maybe I’m alone in that. I know you’re both sure it can’t work and you’re probably over me already or you would have looked for me but I don’t even care.”

_Just one breath. Inhale._

“That’s a lie. I care but it’s not going to stop me because I know what we had was real.”

_Lips, mind. Do something._

“Athos, it was important. Is. It _is_ important, Athos. It’s worth fighting for.”

 _One word. “_ Porthos.”

“You’re ready to let us go out of habit. You’re used to being alone --”

“ _Porthos_.”

Porthos huffs, a bronco behind the gate, and pauses just long enough for Athos to reach across the table, there in the middle of the lunch rush at a restaurant where they recognize him, where he has never once been seen with a date. He wraps his hand around the back of Porthos’ neck, has to stand to pull Porthos closer over the table until Porthos is half standing too, bending forward as Athos opens his mouth against Porthos’ lips.

Soon Porthos hand is soft and cool on Athos’ cheek and the kiss is threatening to move from surprising to inappropriate.

“You’re right,” Athos tells him when he finally pulls away.

Porthos pants, kissed breathless. “About what?”

“Me, everything.” Athos sits and, reluctantly, so does Porthos. “It’s been a long two months.”

Porthos’ eyelids drift closed. His chest rises with breath and his mouth, that marvelous mouth that Athos has _missed_ , waits to smile or frown.

“I should have found you. I wanted to.”

Porthos breathes, opens his eyes. “Just tell me, in or out.”

“I’m in, Porthos.” Athos takes Porthos’ hand on the table, turns it over, brushes his fingers over Porthos’ palm. “Look at you, and this, what you’ve done. You’ve been so brave, and I’ve been… how could I turn you down?”

Another deep breath and Porthos seizes Athos’ hand. He stands, tugging Athos behind him as he darts between tables to the restrooms’ hallway.

Porthos crushes Athos against the wall, hands wide on Athos’ cheeks, fingers in his hair and mouth sucking greedily at Athos’ open lips. Athos is overcome, the rush of _yes_ so powerful his knees threaten to give out. But Porthos has one arm around Athos’ waist, bracing the small of his back, holding him tight.

_Here. Actually here._

“I want to take you home,” Porthos whispers, brushing his nose against the tip of Athos’ nose.

“I want you to,” Athos whispers back, breath shallow, and leans his forehead against Porthos’.

“There’s more. Aramis is playing tonight.”

Athos lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud.

Porthos continues. “But he brought it up. Ending it.”

“Excuse me,” a man’s voice interrupts, abrupt, too loud. And unnecessary: there’s plenty of room for him to get by, beer gut notwithstanding.

“Do you have a problem --” Porthos begins, turning.

“Are you waiting for the john?” the man clarifies. “You in line?”

“No,” Athos answers for both of them. Porthos, ready to fight on every front. How did he ever get so lucky?

He leads Porthos by the hand to their table.

As they sit, Porthos asks, “So what do you think? Coming to get him with me? Say yes.”

* * *

 

It’s a solo show. A poster with an old picture of Aramis hangs in the window outside. He’s a much younger man in it, slighter, with stubble instead of a beard but the same deadly smirk, the same greedily smoldering eyes the last shade of brown before black.

When Athos and Porthos step inside Aramis is there on the stage, _right there_ , hunched at the piano as if he were just anyone, just breezily existing with no sense of his importance. He’s finishing up a song; there’s scattered applause. Aramis touches the brim of his fedora and starts another tune without glancing up from the keyboard.

Aramis only looks the same for a moment and then Porthos sees the changes in him: his cheeks are hollows, there are bags under his eyes, he’s skinnier. His hair curls out from under his fedora at his temples, around his ears, an oblivious mess.

Athos sits beside Porthos, squeezes his hand under the table. Aramis’ songs are short tonight, one after the other. No development: the tune and then the tune again. It’s nothing like how he played in Charleston.

Eventually Aramis heads off stage without facing the audience, a quick “thank you” into the mic and a nod of his head. Porthos follows him as if tethered. He can’t not be in the same room as Aramis after these long months apart. Athos trails on Porthos’ heels, slipping past chairs and people until they stand in a dark hallway, in front of a white painted door with a schoolkid’s gold star sticker on it and, under that, in black sharpie, the word _talent_ in quotation marks.

Athos rests his hand on Porthos’ hip. “Ready?”

Porthos knocks, three quick knuckly raps.

The voice inside is muffled but unmistakable. “Patience, Joshua, or I’ll change my --”

Porthos swings the door open to find Aramis pouring himself a glass of something amber.

Aramis sees them and gasps. “I’m not fucking the bartender,” he rushes to explain.

Porthos and Athos step through the threshold and Aramis, as if choreographed, steps backward away from them.

“Not, I mean, that. I could be. I might, but. I’m not. Yet.”

There’s a strain around Porthos’ eyes, a lump in his throat just being in the same room with Aramis again, just being seen. Talking is unlikely. Even breathing is touch and go.

Athos stands beside Porthos, shoulders square. “It’s good to see you.” His voice is thin as paper.

Aramis is nodding, eyes wide and reddening. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?” He glances at Porthos. “Are _you_ okay?”

A strangled chuckled bubbles in Porthos’ throat. “No, I’m not okay.”

Aramis’ chest goes concave, like he’s been kicked. “Shit.”

“It’s not that,” Athos explains, a hand on Porthos’ shoulder. Reassuring. Stilling him. “We were wrong.”

Aramis blinks. His brow furrows with confusion and worry. “I don’t, um, what?”

“We think you’re an idiot,” Porthos insists. “And you’re wrong and you look like hell and we fucking miss you.”

Aramis’ lips come together, begin to make a word, but don’t. Maybe can’t.

Athos continues. “Aramis, listen. What we had in Charleston meant more to me than I told you. Either of you,” Athos clarifies, glancing at Porthos.

“And me,” Porthos says, tearing his eyes from Athos, turning that blaze on poor, blindsided Aramis. “So unless you plan to get it on with Joshua, we want to give this – _us_ – a shot.”

The expression comes over Aramis’ face slowly. Resistance. “Nothing’s changed.”

Porthos is shaking his head. “We all live here in Chicago --”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m on the road, I barely live anywhere --”

“So fucking what,” Porthos argues and nearly at the same time Athos asks, strained, “Do you miss us?”

“Two minutes.” It’s the bored, flexible intonation of a young man. He’s tall and slinky-hipped and leaning, arms folded, in the doorway.

“Thanks.” Aramis speaks the word like smoke.

“I’m serious. Three minutes tops or I’m blasting my Kristen Chenoweth playlist.”

“Got it.”

“Which has the benefit of being neither broody nor stuck in the last century, unlike some people.”

“ _Joshua_.” Now he looks at the kid. A hard, unkind look.

“ _Fine_.” Joshua rolls his eyes and leaves, pushing off the door with his hip.

There’s silence then. Porthos watches Aramis, three minutes isn’t enough for this, should he repeat Athos’ question?

Is missing them even enough?

Aramis shakes out his arms. He turns in the direction of the stage. “I can’t do this now.”

If Porthos could just make him understand. “Aramis --”

“Porthos, I’m at work.”

Aramis says it like a whip crack. Porthos recoils.

Athos’ hand finds Porthos’ shoulder again. “Of course, we shouldn’t have…”

But Porthos twists, he’s out the door before Athos’ sentence is finished. He stomps, fast, to the back of the club, near the door, and waits for Athos to glide between tables and waiters and people there to hear Aramis do his job, there for the right reasons, selfish in a totally sanctioned way, not like greedy Porthos who asks too much, whose heart doesn’t understand the word _temporary_.

Athos has stopped at their table and gathered their coats. Now his palm is warm on Porthos’ arm, offering Porthos his coat.

But Aramis is taking the stage so Porthos can’t bring himself to leave. All he can do is collapse the few inches back against the wall and watch Aramis fold his body onto the bench.

Athos joins Porthos against the wall. Both wrecked, both stuck between what could have been and the desolate after.

Aramis glares at the keyboard. He takes off his hat, drops it on the ground beside him and scratches his fingers mercilessly over his scalp, messing up his already unruly hair. He sniffs. He puts his fingers on the keyboard, then drops them back down on his lap without playing a note.

He looks up over the piano, turns his head slowly, looks out over the audience until he sees Porthos and Athos and keeps looking, a moment that dilates.

Porthos hates this. For the first and he’s willing to bet last time in his life, he would open his chest right there and give away his heart, blood and gore and everything. That’s what he needs Aramis to know. No, he wouldn’t even have to hand it over because _it’s already theirs._

Aramis looks back to the keyboard. His hands come up. He spreads out his fingers, lays his hands flat over the white keys, fingers lacing between the black keys like he’s holding the keyboard’s hand. He depresses one note, high, then the one beside it.

His left hand plays a cluster, two more, rising. Now more from the right hand. Something is coming together. Then he stops, aborts whatever it was. Whiffles a dark laugh.

Now he pulls his harmonica out of his pocket with his right hand. With his left, he jabs a jagged lick and that opens into an octave with something in the middle, thick and hollow at the same time. He jabs again. It begins an insistent, rough rhythm. Then he takes a deep breath and settles the harmonica between his lips.

Aramis blows a harsh chord through it; he sucks and another comes, filling the gaps left by the first one. His left hand moves, and now he smears his lips over the chrome and blows a high, whining bend.

It’s not like anything Porthos has heard from him before. It feels like a cry, something uncomposed, no art.

“Jesus,” Athos sighs into the dark.

But this music stops as abruptly as the last thing. In the sudden silence Aramis breathes at the keyboard, sets the harmonica on the piano. He shakes his head, smirks, plays a couple of cliché, ending-sounding chords, the musical equivalent of a silly “ta-da,” and taps his forehead to the microphone in something like defeat.

The audience is confused. It’s easy to feel it. They’re making more noise, little chair scrapes and louder voices. Aramis is losing them.

Aramis noodles at the keys vaguely until he stumbles on a blues riff, the kind that expects a response. “Y’ever been in love?” Aramis asks into the mic, and repeats the riff.

Someone in the audience whistles.

“I been in love,” Aramis says, low and seductively resonant. Porthos and Athos should leave. Aramis is taunting them now, he’s being cruel and strange and unlike the man they thought they knew.

Same riff, a little higher. “I been in love with the summer breeze, felt like a kiss.”

Another whistle.

Another riff, and now his voice spills out as if broken. “I been in love with a bottle just about killed me dead.”

“Yeah,” comes a woman’s voice from near the front. “Hey,” comes Joshua’s petulant tenor from behind the bar.

“We still see each other every now and then,” Aramis confides, lips against the mic, eyebrow rising.

Really. They should go. They shouldn’t see this. He wouldn’t want them to. Porthos starts; Athos holds his forearm, doesn’t let him leave.

The riff comes again, joined by something rich and dissonant in the right hand. “Been in love,” Aramis continues on the edge of his voice, his tone sharp as steel, “with the night, been in love with a song, but…”

The riff, simply, again. Twice. “But.” Three times.

“And.”

Aramis stops, pulls his hands off the keys like they’re hot, pushes his splayed fingers down his thighs to his knees.

“Didn’t even rhyme.” He breathes it into the microphone, defeated. “I have to go.”

Joshua cups his hands into a megaphone over his mouth. “Kristen Chenoweth, bitch, don’t think I won’t!”

He turns, his lips still on the mic, locks eyes with Porthos in the back of the room. There’s an improbable, helpless smile in his gaze.

And then a laugh, “yeah, gotta go,” and he’s darting off the stage into the hallway.

“Come on,” Athos says, pulling Porthos by the arm through the room again toward Aramis’ green room.

Aramis meets them in the hallway, already in his coat, scarf, pulling gloves on his hands. “This way,” he tells them and leads them out the back door.

Inside his head, all Porthos can hear is a rush like a train screeching by.

In the street, Aramis casts up and down the night-lit avenue. “Wow, that was. Fuck, they’re never gonna book me again. Whatever, should we take the L? I’m out in Pilsen, we could get a cab --”

“My apartment,” Athos says, slipping his hand into Aramis’.

Aramis is strange. Manic. Scattered. Gulping big breaths of icy air. But calmer for Athos’ touch.

Porthos joins them on Aramis’ other side, repeating Athos’ question with a tenderness he might not have hazarded just half an hour ago. “Do you miss us?”

Aramis doesn’t answer, just brushes the gloved fingers of his free hand over Porthos’ cheek.

Porthos sinks into the warmth of Aramis palm against his face, the warmth of these two men, his two, finally and unbelievably beside him again.

“Taxi!” Athos calls, and a car pulls up to the curb beside them.

* * *

 

In the car, there is are-you-real touching and reassuring touching and feather-soft, barely-there, amazed touching.

But no words. Not yet.

* * *

 

Under different circumstances, Aramis might register once again how cold the night is. He might notice how beautiful and impersonal the glass and chrome foyer of Athos’ apartment building is. He might want to take in the view, comment on the understated luxury Athos surrounds himself with, how it suits him, how this is exactly how he imagined Athos living, when he imagined him.

Which was more often than it should have been.

Instead his mind is spinning out a chaotic counterpoint, _this can never work_ in fugue with _you will hurt them, you can’t help it_. They are well-practiced lines now two months in, but tonight there is more: there is Porthos’ _so fucking what_ and Athos’ _do you miss us?_ There are their faces in the dark, their faces in the light, their faces both determined and hopeful.

It is an enormous risk.

Aramis is dazed as Athos opens a bottle of wine, takes out three glasses, fills them with deep purple. Aramis takes the one offered. Porthos is grinning and he and Athos are both watching Aramis with a mix of excitement, awe, and worry.

He has told himself he loves his brief encounters for what they are, would love them less if they meant more. Or no, they mean so much for being ephemeral, don’t they?

He follows them into the living room. He sits when they sit.

_Do you miss us?_

The ache grew in that first week. It became lung-crushingly huge. Nothing made it better: not remembering, not not remembering, not moving on. _Trying_ to moving on; actually doing it was impossible. Ask Joshua: Aramis couldn’t even flirt properly anymore.

How much worse will it be now, when they inevitably leave him?

“Hey,” comes Porthos’ voice, Porthos’ hand on Aramis’ thigh. “Hey.”

“I’ll speak to whoever. Someone.” Athos leans forward. “I’ll explain you weren’t feeling well, won’t happen again, it’ll be --”

“You two ruined me for anyone else.” Aramis spills the words without thinking. It’s simply true.

Porthos grins at that and when Aramis glances over, Athos’ eyes are sparkling too. They are, without doubt, the two most miraculous beings on the planet.

“If we do this.” Aramis can’t sustain eye contact with either of them now, it’s like looking directly at the sun, so it’s the surface of his wine he’ll stare at, smooth and the dark color of blood. “If we do this, you have to promise me,” Aramis continues, come what fucking may, second chances just don’t happen, the universe would boot him if he didn’t at least respond. “If you feel neglected because I’m always gone, if I’m frivolous and childish and self-absorbed, promise me you’ll go. You’ll save yourselves.”

Porthos puts down his glass. “You won’t.”

“I will, I guarantee it, I’m awful.”

“We know,” Athos tells him.

“And,” Aramis says, louder, not finished, and chuckles at himself for chastising them in the middle of this. “And,” gentler now, “promise me -- I can’t believe I’m saying this but I can’t let this whatever-this-is happen without asking because after these last two months I know that I _cannot take it_ … Promise me you won’t go.”

Athos crosses the living room to Aramis in two strides, taking his wine away from him, leaving his hand in its place.

Porthos slips his hand along Aramis’ jaw, a velvet stroke. He turns Aramis’ head and with just a second of breath first, meets Aramis’ lips in a tender kiss.

It’s something like an answer but it’s _not one,_ not exactly, so when Porthos releases his lips, just as Athos pulls at his chin, Aramis continues. “Ever.”

“Ever,” Porthos agrees without hesitation. “Ever, Aramis.”

Athos smiles, really smiles at him, eyes and mouth and cheeks, his entire face just glows. He kisses Aramis’ lower lip, then captures his upper lip, licking over Aramis’ front teeth. “Ever. We promise.”

Who can say what the future holds? But that. That is something. A start.

Aramis sighs. His head falls back against the couch cushions. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” Porthos asks, fingers already working at the top button of his shirt.

Athos’ hand is warm on Aramis’ thigh. Porthos’ breath is _his_ breath. And what he lost has found him. “Yes, I missed you,” he whimpers.

“Aramis,” Athos breathes against his ear.

Aramis turns his head for Athos’ mouth. He wants tongue and heat, wants to suck at Athos’ lips until his mind catches up to them all, until he can believe. And (Athos’ breath, it’s starting) yes, until Athos’ control melts away. Aramis slips his hand along Athos’ jaw, whispers “come ‘ere” against Athos’ mouth and the groan from deep in Athos’ throat is gasoline on a fire. Aramis pulls Athos over him, arching, kissing up into him.

Aramis could happily drown in these men.

Porthos has Aramis’ shirt open. He rubs hard across Aramis’ chest and grabs a fistful of Aramis’ t-shirt, then buries his jaw in the hollow of Aramis’ neck. Soon Porthos’ hand, tensed to a claw, presses lower over Aramis’ side, between them, over Aramis’ hip when Athos twists to offer his mouth to Porthos.

This. Them, the three of them sinking into the warmth of their vow.

That’s what it was, wasn’t it? A vow?

Athos kisses his vow into Porthos’ open mouth, over his tongue, down Porthos’ neck. He kisses it into Aramis, kisses the future into his skin. Moving across them, between them, he kisses promises into them both about care and honesty and safety and home.

Someone slides the coffee table away and Athos tugs Aramis by the collar, shifts off the edge of the much too small couch and onto the floor. Porthos follows them, kneels beside where Aramis straddles Athos’ folded thighs, where Athos still has Aramis’ collar, pushing at him, looking into his eyes with something as fierce as anger. Oh, but then Aramis seizes Athos’ mouth again and Athos’ fist relaxes, fingers slipping inside the fabric to sensitive skin, to a much more secure kind of hold.

Porthos sighs, actually sighs just to see them like this. So Aramis reaches for Porthos, gathering him in, and twists to kiss Porthos next. “Porthos did this,” Athos tells Aramis. “Porthos found me. He found you.”

Aramis nods, eyes midnight dark and the way he’s looking at Porthos thick like honey. “Where’s your bed?” Aramis asks Athos without glancing away from Porthos. Aramis glides a hand down Porthos’ arm to his hand, intertwines their fingers. “Come on.”

Athos leads them around a corner to the bedroom. Small, modest bed, huge windows filled with Chicago’s glittering skyline. Aramis sits Porthos at the foot of the bed, pushes his shirt off his shoulders, braces a knee between Porthos’ legs and kisses him deep. Athos is beside them now, mouth needy on Porthos’ neck.

From the minute he got off that plane, Porthos knew what was missing. He knew when he couldn’t think, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t finish a single sculpture – couldn’t trust himself to even start, every idea already pure shit – he knew that he had given away some crucial part of himself that week in Charleston. He would have to make himself again, create a new Porthos, one that withstands a double-barreled heartbreak and lives to tell. His single most astonishing work. Impossible.

Their mouths under his, over his, their hands on his skin, tight or soft, wanting or giving, the promises they make him with their bodies as much as their words – this is what he lost. And now, now he can hear them again. He can trust himself to know what it means when Aramis presses his body the length of Porthos’ side for skin skin skin, when Athos spreads his palm wide across Porthos’ chest to feel through bone and muscle for the rhythm of Porthos’ heart. Porthos wraps his arms around them both, holds them both against him. _I will never let you go._

Porthos’ cock is hard in someone’s fist. Someone grinds his cock against Porthos’ hip; he lets his head fall to that side, offers his kiss-bitten mouth for more. Athos, _God_. Athos, who he doesn’t need to fear anymore, not now that he’s got two bottles of pills on his side. He smiles against Athos’ lips, spreads his palm wide over the smooth skin of Athos’ hip, over his ass.

Athos taught them this, that watching doesn’t have to be distant or greedy; it can be an act of adoration, and Aramis knows this to his bones seeing his loves kiss into each other, knead each other’s bodies, both hungry, both generous. It is glorious. Transforming. The way Athos yields, the way Porthos pushes into Athos’ kiss, rolls them both until he is all but above Athos, moving against Athos in slow thrusts into the cradle of Athos’ hip that Aramis remembers.

Now further, Porthos slots a leg between Athos’ and Athos’ hands grasp at Porthos’ ass, skate over Porthos’ broad back. Athos slides his hands inside the frame Porthos’ arms make around Athos’ face, up and through until Athos can hold Porthos’ head, bend Porthos’ neck to kiss him deeper.

Athos’ expression is so tender, it stings. They begin to move together, thrust together with gathering purpose. Aramis can imagine now cock sliding against cock, a wild mess of friction and slick between them. Half on his knees, the muscles of Porthos’ ass clench and stretch with each thrust. Aramis licks his lips, grabs Porthos’ hand when Porthos reaches out for him now, “may I?”

“Condom in my front pocket,” Porthos breathes, the words a rush.

Aramis grins when he finds a small tube of lube there with it, _confident Porthos, he knew. He saw through us, confronted our fear, how will I ever make it up to him?_ Aramis sets the condom on the bed and squeezes the gel onto two fingers.

Athos has Porthos between his legs now, bent and tight around Porthos’ hips. “Don’t come yet,” Aramis warns – begs – as he slides a first slick finger over Porthos’ hole.

Porthos sucks in a deep breath and stills. Athos’ breath trembles beneath him.

Aramis traces Porthos’ hole with gentle, insistent pressure, a swirl around the rim, another and another and then, there in the center. More pressure and Porthos gives way with a groan.

Athos’ hands are firm at Porthos’ temples. “Kiss me,” he tells Porthos, and Porthos does. Messier now. Coming undone.

Aramis traces circles just inside Porthos, deepening gradually, pressing outward. Athos anchors him as Porthos moves with it, back against Aramis’ fingers and away, against Athos’ cock.

“Aramis,” Porthos pleads.

Aramis rips the wrapper open with his teeth, rolls it on fast, he wants him _so badly_ , wants him with the weight of months, the weight of the lifetime without them that awaited him only hours ago. He climbs on the bed, kneels behind Porthos, brushes slick fingers over the warm skin of Porthos’ ass, his hips. And with a gaping breath, he pushes inside.

A moment to find their balance, the three of them here, Porthos between them, _theirs,_ and then Aramis thrusts. Porthos is pushed forward, thrusting into Athos. This, then: Aramis provides the impetus, slow at first and then sharper. Porthos is the conduit, the transfer, thrusting Aramis’ thrust against Athos. And Athos beneath them both, absorbing the strength of their combined power, concentrated at his bare cock, slick finally with Porthos as much as himself.

It doesn’t last long, not tonight, not now. Porthos comes first, a breathy “I can’t” the only warning and Athos and Aramis follow seconds later, Aramis collapsing with a sobbing groan and Athos… Athos’ eyes glistening at the sheer sensation of coming unfettered against Porthos’ hot, perfect skin.

Later, in the pale early morning they lie close, breathing deep, slow breaths.“Ever,” Aramis whispers, his promise to them. He props himself on an elbow, leaning to press a light kiss to Porthos’ nose. Athos encircles Aramis’ waist with languid arms and kisses Aramis’ shoulder with soft, lingering lips.

* * *

 

* * *

 

The sun is bright, too bright for morning. What time is it?

Why is the sun so bright?

Ah, no curtains.

Curtains should be a priority. Or blinds. Whatever. Blankets, even.

It’s hot. Maybe not blankets. Aramis’ neck is sweating, his knee is slick where it’s bent.

Aramis turns over on his back. There’s nothing here but a sheet tangled at his feet and hundred-decibel sunlight.

And food? It smells good.

Aramis scoots across a wide expanse of bed to the edge. It’s low, only a box spring and a mattress. Aramis’ phone is on a box.

There are so many boxes and Aramis can’t remember where the bathroom is.

Oh, right, _this_ bathroom. He liked this slate-tiled, spa-like bathroom when he first saw it but not so much right now with its really bright lights and unforgiving mirror. He takes a piss, brushes his teeth, swallows his pills with a mouthful of water sipped right from the tap. No soap, no towels. He wipes his hands on his jeans by the bed, then slips them on before he pads toward the scent of meat cooking.

“Morning,” Athos says. He leans for a kiss. “Beef hands,” he explains, holding them away in a shrug.

“What time is it?” Aramis asks.

“Eleven thirty,” Porthos answers from the next room.

“You’re cooking?” Aramis asks Athos. There’s coffee in a cup. “Is this for me?”

“Yeah, but heat it up.” Athos slides a cutting board of carrot pieces into a large pot.

“I thought we’d order in today. There’s so much to do.” There are boxes on the floor, the counters, the table. Piles of boxes.

Three apartments’ worth.

Porthos appears in jeans too and no shirt bless him, holding an electric screwdriver in a loose grip. “Some of us can’t sleep when there’s unpacking to do.”

Aramis wraps his still sleep-soft arms around Porthos’ waist with a comfortable hum. There’s no denying him: Porthos’ skin is irresistible to Aramis’ skin. “You know I’m good for it,” Aramis protests, pressing a drowsy kiss into the sheen of sweat on Porthos’ neck. He slides his hands inside Porthos’ waistband and twists a little toward Athos.

Athos puts the knife and cutting board in the sink and washes his hands with what Aramis suspects is the only unpacked soap in the apartment. “It’s our first whole day here. I wanted to make it smell like home.”

Porthos reaches behind Aramis for Athos, pulling him from the sink by a belt loop. “It _is_ home.”

“My hands are wet,” he complains.

But Porthos won’t be dissuaded and Aramis is in no position to argue. “Good,” Porthos counters, drawing Athos close enough for Aramis to kiss. Athos yields and they overlap into each other, the three of them, there in the middle of their kitchen, like the petals of a rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your support and kudos and responses made this possible. Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Dickinson's poem Wild Nights (which sounds too much like a metal band's b-side to be useful itself): Were I with thee/Wild nights would be/Our luxury.../Futile the winds/to a heart in port...


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